


The Games Have Already Begun

by Odesta_irom



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: Abuse of Authority, Book/Movie 2: Catching Fire, Consent Issues, Control, District 12 (Hunger Games), Drug Use, F/M, Fear, Flashbacks, Forced, Gen, Mental Instability, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rape/Non-con Elements, Reapings (Hunger Games), Secrets, Sexual Violence, Threats, curfew
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-23
Updated: 2020-08-18
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:53:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 15
Words: 60,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24868687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Odesta_irom/pseuds/Odesta_irom
Summary: We begin the night before the 75th Reaping and discover the darker story between the pages of Catching Fire and that our Victors share more in common than just their crown.
Comments: 49
Kudos: 23





	1. Nightmares and Monsters

**Author's Note:**

> The new HG book has encouraged me to start writing again, and I thought I would dust off my first story from FFN that started it all many years ago. I'd really appreciate your comments and suggestions. More chapters to come as I finish dusting off the pages.

I put one foot in front of the other through the square as we make our way up to the temporary stage. Just as crisp clean white uniforms encircle me, Peeta and Haymitch follow with their own ivory escorts. The hot sun glints off of the video cameras and machine guns while a golden Effie awaits us at the top of the stairs, wearing her plastic smile.

"Welcome, welcome!" she announces as she turns to the audience as we take our places. My mother and Prim are just a few feet away. Gale looms even further in the distance.

Effie’s voice echoes off of the Hall of Justice as she makes the traditional introductions and I keep my eyes on Gale, waiting for him to look up at me. I know this may be the last time I see him, so I don't dare look away. But why isn't he looking back? I'm worried he won't make an appearance after the reaping for a proper goodbye.

It's time for Effie to pull my name out of the crystal bowl. Her hand hovers in the usual, made for television suspense and finally snatches up the lonely strip of paper. Again, hesitating in her usual fashion, she calls my name. As rehearsed, I walk up to take center stage to my mark, placing my feet perfectly over the X of white tape. After a moment, I realize Effie hasn't made another sound. I glance up at her to make sure nothing emotional has interrupted her speech, but when I look for her golden hair and long fake eyelashes, I see a melting face with large teeth.

"What are you waiting for, honey? It's just you in this year's games," she cackled as she lifts a mutated claw towards me.

I try to take a step back, but I find my feet tangled in vines of white tape. I twist myself around and cry for help from Peeta and Haymitch. As I turn, I see mutt versions of the two; Peeta's hair is frayed and foam drips from his cracked mouth, Haymitch's smile reaches from ear to ear, revealing snaggled and chipped teeth, already caked with red.

I turn back to the crowd and see they are inching towards me, claws raised.

I search for Gale, and when I find him in the horrendous crowd, he has his back to me. "Gale! Gale, help!" I scream out to him. My feet are cemented to the ground. My pulse quickens and I feel sweat drip down the back of my neck.

The heat is unbearable, and I find it hard to breathe.

I keep searching for any familiar face. My mother and Prim, who where just feet from me a moment ago, are nowhere to be found.

"No, no this, this can't be happening..." I stammer just as a loud canon goes off which makes me duck and cover my ears. Every video monitor flickers to life. President Snow's face floats in front of a black screen and he delivers his official announcement, "Congratulations, Ms. Everdeen. May the odds be ever in your favor." I stare at the floating head and watch his eyes glance back into the crowd’s direction. Following his gaze, I see Gale has returned, dead center, with Prim on his shoulders. Hands grab me from behind to return me to a standing position and keep me still while Prim lifts my bow and looses an arrow straight into my chest.

My mouth gapes open as my lungs squeeze out every bit of air. Strangely, no sound escapes my throat. My hands clutch at my sweat soaked shirt and my legs kick at the blankets twisted about my feet. I force myself to breathe again and the next exhale finally allows a cry to pass my lips.

This dream was different than the others; there were no dead tributes, no fires, and no crumbling caves. Being killed by my own sister was definitely different. It seems no matter what I do for her; I will not be getting out alive.

Earlier that evening, Peeta and Haymitch joined my mother, Prim and I for a quiet dinner. Small talk was attempted, but really, what could you say on the eve of the reaping? Since our names were essentially called a month ago upon Snow’s announcement of the Quart Quell, there had been time for last hugs and goodbyes. My anxieties of my departure from 12 - and this world - were slightly reduced when Prim assured me of her abilities, my mother of her sanity, and Gale of his duties.

About 9:30, Haymitch finally called it quits and for once sounded like the responsible one. "I don't know about you, but I don't want a rhinestone boot up my ass in the morning if we aren't ready before you-know-who arrives. Goodnight." He forced himself up from the overstuffed chair and glanced at Peeta, giving him his cue to follow.

"He's right," Peeta said as he cleared his throat. "Mrs. Everdeen, thank you for the lovely meal." He stood on his prosthetic with much more grace and ease than a sober Haymitch. For courtesy, I see them to the door; Haymitch quietly made his exit with nothing more than a nod, but Peeta lingered for a moment. He looked at the floor and started to mouth something, but wasn't able find the strength to say the words. As my first act to save him, I simply said, "See you tomorrow."

His head snapped up in relief and he smiled. "Yeah, see you tomorrow." When his blue eyes found mine, I returned the smile and lightly gave a squeeze to his arm as he stepped outside.

"Sweet dreams," I whispered as I latched the door closed.

I meant it sincerely. I crossed my fingers every night before I closed my eyes. I was sure he did the same. His paintings revealed that we shared the same condition. Although he had a paintbrush to quiet his nightmares, my screams only fed mine.

My mother popped up and clapped her hands together, "Okay, off to bed you two! Big day tomorrow! I want you to be ready when Ms. Trinket arrives!"

I knew my mother was trying her hardest to keep it together. I couldn't believe she didn't shut down again during the last games, and on the eve of tomorrow’s Reaping, I was surprised she could even form whole words. So, I tried my best around my mother as well. I knew she heard my cries at night, yet every morning she welcomed me with open arms and a bright smile. Since the Quarter Quell announcement, I heard her cries too that only happened behind her closed door. However, she was smiling now, so why couldn't I?

I walked across the room and hugged her tightly. Even though this hug had the same meaning as last year, this time there was a warmth and life that I embraced.

"I love you mom," I whispered, nestled in her arms.

She pulled away and cupped my face in her fragile hands, "I love you too my dear, dear Katniss." A tear threatening to jump from its ledge interrupted the moment. She pulled away, sniffed and said, "Okay, off to bed! I will see you in the morning!"

Prim followed me upstairs and before we reached our respective bedrooms, she pulled me into a hug. "Oh little duck... I don't know who is stronger: you, me, or Buttercup. Seriously, I saw a Peacekeeper being cornered by that demon cat." My horrible efforts to lighten the mood worked; a quiet chuckle nervously came from my sister. She looked up at me and said, "Definitely Buttercup. But you're prettier."

It takes about fifteen minutes to finally calm down from this new nightmare. It must be a new record. I can’t shake the images of Prim's last action from my mind.

I strip off my soaked shirt and go to the bathroom to fetch a cool washcloth. It's about 3 in the morning and there is no way I can attempt to close my eyes again. Instead, I peer out my window to Peeta's house; it wouldn't be fair to bother him this late at night. Then I notice a dim light in the window next door – Haymitch, on the other hand.

I pull on a clean shirt, loose drawstring pants and my father's jacket before I sneak downstairs. I don't bother with my boots since it is only a short walk across the way to my mentor's. I quietly let myself inside and a familiar and unpleasant smell greets me. Haymitch promised his sobriety, but I guess old habits never die. I understand now why he chooses to drown himself - he's drowning his memories.

"Haymitch, it's just me. I couldn't... sleep." I find him in his living room, curled up with a dusty bottle of white liquor. I can't believe he managed to hide a bottle of that stuff since our last binge.

With an annoyed groan, I take a seat next to him and start to speak. I know he can't hear me, but to have a warm body in the same room will do just fine as a confessional. I spill out details of my haunting nightmares and embarrassing flash backs; my fears of leaving my sister and mother behind, the hurt I felt when Gale knew I could never be with him and finally, death finds its way out of my mouth. Not the other tribute's, Haymitch’s or Peeta's, but mine. I have to say it out loud so that I can finally accept my fate. The odds are not in my favor, but highly stacked against me - Snow reminded me of that. I am going to die in that arena, but not until Peeta's victory is guaranteed.

I regret my decision to use Haymitch as my confidant when he answers with a burp and a deep snort.

"You're right," I say with a defeated sigh, "it's pointless working myself up." I wiggle the dusty bottle from his unconscious grasp and take a long pull. When the liquid stops burning its way down to my gut, I raise the bottle to Haymitch, lean back, put my feet on the coffee table and take another swig.

My head begins to buzz and the warmth spreads from my stomach out to my toes. I play with the buttons on my jacket and study the warn brass of the clasps, watching light play across the metal. It reminds me of my Mockingjay pin.

I realize I can't remember when the last time I’ve seen it. I sit up and set down the empty bottle and put my head in my hands. I’ve locked it away somewhere safe, but unfortunately, somewhere forgotten too.

It is about 4:00 when I stumble out of Haymitch's house. There is something about pre-dawn that always sends a shiver through me, no matter what time of year. My bare feet squish along the dew soaked grass and I make my way to my old house.

I make it to the old shack; my damp feet leave fat prints on the wooden stairs as I stumble to the back door and stumble inside. I take my jacket off and throw it on the chair in the corner as an old habit. The dust covered remains of furniture are all that greet me in the silence.

Typically at this time of night, you would have to paw your way through the total darkness. Since the reaping, power surges through every street, fence, and television in the district. A dim light seeps in through the windows accompanied by sounds from a nearby work crew, frantically working to make up for lost time.

There had been a delay in getting men and equipment out to 12; three weeks ago, there was another cave-in at the mines. It sent an earthquake through the District, creating a rockslide over the main rail line that is nestled against a steep ridge. I wonder if the contractors have a boss who thrives on stress and last minute results like Effie. "Big, big day!" The sound of her voice in my head reminds me that in one day's time, I will be back in the Capitol and in a month's time, dead.

I take a deep breath and let the dust and dry wood fill my senses, sobering me for a moment while I remember what I came for. Now I know why Haymitch drinks this stuff; I can't even remember what I had for breakfast this morning.

I turn in a slow circle, peering through the long shadows, looking for a clue. I rub my eyes, breathe again and let out a slight chuckle once I remember this predawn excursion is for a silly piece of brass.

Cinna will kill me before I see another tribute if I forget it. I quickly step into the other room where one of my father's many hidden compartments is. Wrapped in a small cloth, I find my pin along with other keepsakes too risky to keep out in the open: a rabbit's foot, my fathers ID tag from the mines, the first arrowhead I had ever made, and the tiny container of medicine that healed Peeta.

They’re silly keepsakes, really. Ever since my father took me beyond the fence line, I made a habit of hiding everything; burrowing anything with any kind of value away like a squirrel.

I carefully wrap everything back up and seal the false panel. I make my way back to the front room, examining my pin, letting the feathers flicker in the low light.

Suddenly, I hear voices, but not from the crew I heard earlier. Instead, they are quieter, closer, and more – military. I clench my pin in my right hand and duck into the shadows. I go to the back entrance to make my escape, but through the cracked windowpane, I can make out their white uniforms. "Shit, shit, shit, shit," I spit the words through my teeth. I turn back to find another escape. Two steps into the other room, I come face to face with Head Peacekeeper Romulus Thread. I stumble backwards against the kitchen table and catch myself with my free hand.

"Commander Th-Thread," I manage shakely. "What brings you here?" He stands in front of me like a statue you would see in one of our school books; all in white – his uniform, his hair, his pale skin.

"I'm sorry, if there is something wro-"

"Quiet!" he barks, cutting my inquiry and making me flinch. I can feel my face grow hot from the sudden anxiety of being cornered. My head is still swimming in white liquor. "You are out after curfew, young lady."

"Curfew? But this is my-"

"House?" He cuts me off again. "This shit hole? We have reason to believe you might be attempting to escape. You know the laws, Miss Everdeen, if you refuse to attend the Reaping, your family will face grave consequences." I don't understand where was he coming up with this. I know the laws, and even the new set of rules Snow had conjured in our last meeting.

I straighten up at the accusation and give a stern look. "I don't think you know the consequences you'll face when you fuck with a Victor." I lift a cocky eyebrow. Not only has the white liquor made me forgetful, it has made me careless. And slow.

Thread steps forward and grabs me by the back of my head, wrapping his gloved fingers tightly around my braid. His face is inches from mine and a growl emits from his lips, coated in a coffee stench.

"I said, quiet," he barks again, shaking me to the core. I try to turn my face away, but my head is pulled back. "What's that in your hand?" Thread demands. I reluctantly raise my closed fist, and with his free hand, he yanks my wrist upwards and gives it a hard twist. I present him my pin, which teeters in my open palm. His small eyes dart back to mine, and I can see the corners crease as he smiles. "Contraband, even better." I feel the rough cloth of his gloves scratch over my palm as he confiscates my pin. I try to watch his hand to see if he pockets my pin, but yet again, Thread controls me like a puppet by my braid.

"It's not contraband. It's my token for the games-" My head is pulled backwards in a swift jerk and the pin is shoved into my gaping mouth and Thread clamps my jaw closed. I inhale deeply through my nose in utter shock, and stare into Thread's eyes with bewilderment. In protest of the taste of brass, my mouth starts to water.

The coffee stench is now mixed with old leather and grease from his scratchy gloves. The adrenaline must be pushing out whatever alcohol is left, because my senses are finally awake. The statue of a man now towers over me as I’m forced to lean backwards over the table. The only things keeping me up are his hands around my head.

"You've caused me nothing but trouble, young lady. In the square, that stunt you pulled jumping the fence, and now sneaking around after curfew. You Victors think you are above the law, above me. Not anymore!" His coffee stained breath splatters on my face.

I clench my eyes closed and hold my breath. I can't fight this man. I can’t scream. I can't even swallow.

All I can do is question this man with my eyes.

"You Victors are all the same. You didn't win your freedom; you just won some extra food and a fancy house. You didn’t win any rights." His eyes move from mine and sweep downwards. "I've had Victors before. 4 and 7, but a 'Mockingjay,' now that sounds even better."

Wait, what did he call me? Had? Oh no.

My eyes widen at the realization, wider than his stained smile. And in an instant, I am flat on my back on the dusty hard wood floor, which knocks the wind out of me. Thread knees are tucked between my legs and he leans over me, still holding my mouth shut.

I take one hand and push against his white Kevlar vest as I try to pry his hand away from my face with the other. I kick until my heels grow numb. Saliva starts to pool in the back of my throat and I start to gag. The dust that falls into my eyes burns, making me clamp them shut.

The heat from Thread has enveloped me making my heart race.

Somehow, I am transported into the arena and I hear explosions as I claw through the hot smoke. Crackling trees are screaming from the fire. My heart is pounding, and I start to run.

The sound of Thread's voice snaps me back to the dark kitchen floor. "Is this the kind of Victor the Capitol is making now? You're pathetic."

I manage to swallow without letting the pin slip past my tongue. I open my eyes and see Thread look down as he is fumbling with something. A moment later, I feel a tug on the drawstring of my pants. I kick again, harder in protest, and turn my hips away. Motivated by instinct, my free hand cracks him across the jaw. This stops him for a moment and his hand releases my pants. Before I can feel a sense of victory, he returns with a blade against my cheek.

"Don't you get it, you little cunt?" Thread spits his words in my face. I stare him down, reminding him this isn't the first time I have had a knife pulled on me. "You really fucked up. President Snow wasn't too pleased with your Tour. He said you should be punished, but not like your _cousin_. We don't want to mark up that pretty little face of yours again, now do we? Or would you rather your sister, Primrose, take your place?" My eyes start to burn, but this time not from the dust.

My hands fall back in defeat. I feel the knife slide down my throat, between my breasts, over my belly and under the drawstring of my pants. A quick flip, and they hang loose across my waist. Thread tucks his knife away his and plucks his glove off with his teeth. After he tosses the glove aside, he tugs at my pants again. My refusal to cooperate earns me a threatening look from Thread. I swallow hard and relax my hips so he can lower my pants.

The heat I felt turns ice cold. The belt and clasps of Thread's uniform graze my naked thighs and sends a shock to my core – it causes me to shake and my teeth start to chatter.

I roll my head to the side and look away, trying to find something in the darkness that I can use against him, even if it isn't physically tangible. The house was stripped, just as I was. The only things left are the memories that it holds. My mind frantically searches for something to hold on to, but is torn away when I feel the tip of his member graze my flesh.

Sobs erupt from my throat and bubble out into his glove. I shake my head and my eyes plead for him to stop. He rocks forward, pressing against me harder. Thread groans in dissatisfaction and then spits into the palm of his hand, I snap my eyes shut and hold my breath when I feel his fingers slide between my legs, wiping his saliva against me. His cock presses against me a second time, stopping just inside my entrance.

"That's it," he whispers.

Thread wraps his sticky right hand around my left knee, forcing my hips up to meet his, and gives a hard thrust, driving the rest of himself inside. I let out a jagged scream when he strikes deep inside my core. The small amount of spit Thread wiped down there did nothing to ease the friction of his complete penetration.

He pulls back and rocks forward again, slowly and deliberately. I can feel him growing harder with every entry, with every scream. I try to tilt my hips to a different angle to avoid the painful internal blows. Even with both of my hands pushing against Thread’s vest, his weight is too much for me.

He plunges deeper and deeper, sending shockwaves through my body. Until now, I never realized how fragile I really was.

I spit into his glove, cry out, and curse his life as Thread pushes me back and forth on the dusty wooden floor. Tears and spit rolls down my face and into my ears. Eventually, Thread’s hand moves from my mouth and I gulp in the cold air, keeping the pin between my teeth. However, his hand doesn’t stray far, it soon finds my throat. In a panic, training and instinct kick in and my hands start to move; they frantically claw and swing at Thread’s face.

I am not dying on this kitchen floor. Not for his stupid rules.

His grip tightens and my head starts to pound. My body begins to ache and my arms grow heavy. Red flashes across my vision in rhythm with Thread’s rocking, his white hair and uniform pulse crimson. Thread’s breath and actions quicken and slowly, the room starts to fade into darkness. His growls are not at all human.

The smell of wet grass, blood and mutts fill my senses. Feasting grunts and growls echo in my ears as something tears apart a body just below my feet. I look over the edge of the chilled metal of the Cornucopia, and see myself, being mauled by mutts. The mutts of my slain fellow tributes start to change into Peacekeepers as they tear at my naked flesh. Curiosity keeps me from running away from these monsters. Instead, I sit down and let my legs dangle over the edge of the Cornucopia and continue to watch myself get torn apart.

"You shouldn't give up that easily." Prim quietly says as she sits besides me and lets her feet dangle along with mine.

"But there are too many of them. No matter what I do, I'm dead." To further illustrate my point, I nock an arrow and loose it into the back of one of the Mutt Peacekeeper’s neck. It violently reacts, spewing a greenish blood from its wound and its mouth. When it collapses, it melts into the ground with a hiss. Seconds later, a blue halo appears and another mutation is extracted, taking the other's place in consuming my flesh.

We watch in silence while the other me begs for death. I nock another arrow, and send it into my throat. It's not the way I would have liked, but it silences my screams and the mutts’ retreat.

I turn to my sister to gauge her reaction. "See, when I die, it will be better," I tell Prim. She turns and points back to my body. Flowers have begun to grow outwards like an aura. I am no longer a pile of torn, naked flesh, but I am now dressed in an odd black uniform, covered in feathers. Peeta appears under my dangling feet and kneels next to my dead self. Then Gale, Haymitch, my mother, Hazel, Cinna, and even Effie gather around my corpse. Townsfolk fill in the gaps and I can no longer see myself through the shuffling bodies. Suddenly I reappear as they lift me up above their heads and walk away.

I let out a sigh of affirmation, but it quickly turns into a startled gasp as firebombs explode on us. Hovercrafts and Peacekeepers fill in, destroying everyone I know, everyone I love.

"You should wake up now."

Blood rushes back to my head and I come-to as Thread’s grip loosens from around my throat. I take another deep breath, slipping my pin inside my cheek. I gag and cough, my head pounds even harder. I am relieved when he stops and pulls his hips away, no longer abusing my insides.

Did he stop because I passed out? Thought he killed me? Maybe he has had his fill. I soon figure out he hasn't, and I silently curse my sister for waking me for the finale.

Thread sits back on his heels, allowing his cock jut proudly in front of him. His right hand releases my thigh and slides down to my raw flesh making me shake again. Thread’s small eyes crease again he watches his two fingers slide between the folds of my sex, and looks back at me as he thrusts them in as far as he can. Both my hands grab wrap around his wrist, but he is impossible to move.

My feet scramble and try to push me away from his probing digits, but his other gloved hand takes hold of my hair again, pulling until I release his wrist. Thread roughly flexes his fingers against my inner wall, creating a new sharp pain, drawing out a garbled plea to stop from my mouth. My hands twist themselves into the fabric of my t-shirt when they cannot find anywhere else to go.

Two red and glossy fingers are presented above my face. The games haven't even started yet, and I'm already bleeding. My head is still fuzzy from coming-to, and I haven't had the chance to take into account what his tactile display means. For all I know, he is tearing me apart from the inside out.

Thread looks at his fingers in admiration, but then his smile fades away. Thread looks back at me with pouted lips and says, "I guess it won't be a white wedding after all."

The realization floods through my mind bringing a new wave of heavy sobs. He has already taken what little freedom I have earned by becoming a Victor, and now, he has destroyed the last shred of innocence I have left.

Before I can spit my pin in his face, he covers my mouth again, this time with the hand that no longer smells of leather and grease, but of blood. My blood. My body gives up trying to fight back as he dips back inside.

White wedding. White. I think of Cinna's beautiful drawings and the white fabrics thrown about my room as we talk on the phone of happier times. White, like snow. Like, Snow. The sent of blood finds its way into my memories –Blood and roses.

Thread starts to move faster, heavier and harder. He brings his entire body down onto mine, pinning my hands between us, pinching them against the hard clasps and buckles of his vest. His breath heaves into my ear, and soon it turns into a long growl. He gives three sporadic jerks and presses hard against me, stalling all movement except for what still flexes and throbs inside of me.

"Mockingjay…" Thread grumbles, “…more like a dead sparrow." He gets up and crosses the room to the chair that I laid my jacket on. I hear fabric ruffling, buckles being clasped, a cleared throat, and finally, "My men will escort you back home. I hope you have learned your lesson?"

I let me head fall to the side to look at the towering statue standing in my house, just the same as when I first saw him. I somehow manage to find myself and prop up on one elbow, lean over and spit the brass into my hand. I take a moment to look at it and think that this stupid pin, this stupid symbol, has been nothing but trouble.

I see his white boots approach, stop briefly, and step over me as he heads towards the front door. "I suggest you get yourself home. Tomorrow is a big, big day."

I hate him.

I lie back down and manage to slip my pants back on, feeling the dry cotton against my wet and bruised flesh. I tie a loose knot with the cut drawstring. My legs still shake making it almost impossible to stand. I shuffle to the chair and retrieve my father's jacket. When I put it on, I pretend not to notice a shimmer of red that graced its sleeve.

I make my way to the front door and before he allows me outside, Thread points up to a device at the top of the doorframe. I squint in the darkness and notice a small pulsing red light. "Miss Everdeen... President Snow sends his regards."

My heart stops and my knees buckle.

A strong, gloved hand grabs my arm before I can hit the floor. The door opens and I am pushed outside onto the cold damp grass. Several hands grab me at once and prop me back onto my feet.

I was wrong, the games have already begun, and Snow has front row seats. I should have known this wasn't just a power hungry prick of a Peacekeeper. I've seen those before.

"Ahem..." I look up at the dark visor closest to me. He tilts his head and releases one of my arms, and clears his throat again. When I look down, I see that my pants have slipped down, revealing my naked and bruised thighs. I synch them up and gather the waistband in one hand, holding it up, not trusting another knot. I don't dare look up again.

I hear Thread mumble some things to his men before he goes. On command, his men start walking, and push me into their formation. In my daze, the sound of boots crunching along the dirt is all I hear, no longer the work crews clanging away. I wipe my eyes and nose in attempts to clean my face of any humiliation as we walk through the town, back to the Victor's Village. By the time we reach the gateway, all but two of the men disappear, and I am left to walk the remaining fifty feet to my door alone. I look back to the men and realize they won't be leaving anytime soon.


	2. Broken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first blood of the Games has been drawn, hours before the Quarter Quell Reaping, and Katniss has to pull herself back together.

The heavy door groans as I open it and I plead with it to be quiet. If anyone wakes up, I will surely break for good. Before closing the door, I peek outside, towards the two men at the Village's entrance. One turns and looks at me for a moment, then turns away and hangs his head. I wonder if I know the man behind the dark visor and if he knows what happened to Darius.

I force myself upstairs. My thighs ache and my knees are still shaking. For a moment, I linger in the hallway and stare at my mother's door. A pain tears through my chest because I know I can't go to her. Since my father died, I had to be the strong one. For once, I want to drop the weight I have been carrying for the past five years. For once, I want to curl up in her arms and let her make the bad things go away.

I look at Prim's door a few feet away, and the pain moves from my chest into my throat. All of the fear that I feel about going back into the Games moves to her being left behind within Thread's reach. I force myself to move before I completely lose it.

The sharp pains from my insides make me take short, staggering steps to my room. I place my father's jacket and my mockingjay pin on the foot of the bed and shuffle to the bathroom. Before turning on the light, I take a deep breath, not ready to face myself in the mirror. My hands grip the counter, and my eyes slowly find my reflection. Dirt, dried blood and tears streak across my cheeks, my hair frayed from its braid. I see myself back on the hovercraft, being lifted out of the arena, staring at my feral reflection. Stunned, I back away from the mirror and knock against the wall. The impact brings me back. Pressure starts to build in my chest and pushes its way into my throat, but I can't allow myself to be heard. I turn and grab a towel, bunch it up into my mouth and scream as I sink to the floor and cry.

After turning on the shower, I slowly disrobe as I wait for the water to heat up. My back, legs and bottom are filthy from the dusty floor. A blueprint of where Thread's fingers had been shows themselves like a love note on a foggy bathroom mirror. My mind had slipped in and out of reality during his act of punishment so I am just now discovering other places where his hands ventured. My ass and hip reveal red welts; my breast begins to develop purple and blue bruises.

I can't bring myself to look at the worst of what is streaked between my thighs. I step into the scalding hot water and close my eyes. My hands gently and slowly wash away the evidence of the assault between my legs. I try to shake the image of Thread's fingers hovering above my face. I keep my eyes shut tight; I don't want to see how much he hurt me. But the images stay, and I watch again as his white hair glows in the dim light, sweat beading across his brow. The sound he made before he...

My eyes shoot open and I grab the soap, producing as much lather as my hands can hold. My fingers ignore the shocks of pain as they try to remove all remnants of Thread from inside me. If Flavius and Octavia were here with their weird concoctions, I doubt even that would even rid me of his doings.

When I feel I have successfully scrubbed off a layer of skin, I shut the water off and sit in silence. All of Panem will be watching me tomorrow, including President Snow. As if the games weren't enough evidence of his power, I can't let him, or the people of Panem know about his recent sick display of how his laws are enforced.

 _"I've had Victors before,"_ Thread's words ring in my ears. What lines did they cross? Are there other duties Victors acquire besides reading cue cards to the cameras? I shudder to think of brightly colored Capitol men putting their hands on me. My family already knows I have killed for them, but do they need to know every detail of how else I have kept them safe? If I don't come back - _when_ I don't come back - will my mother and Prim be safe? Will 12 even have a chance, especially if men like Thread are running things? All the more reason for me to make sure Peeta wins. He and Haymitch made Thread stand down when I couldn't. Peeta spoke to the other Districts for me. He was the reason the sponsors even noticed us in our first games. If he wins, he can be the speaker for the Districts.

The bitter darkness that hangs outside shifts into a mournful shade of grey as the sun hesitates to rise, afraid of the tragedies that will happen under his rays. The moon is more suited for the event, for she forever wears a face of sorrow. A blanket of clouds will block his view today, but those witness to the premiere of the calamity will feel the heat of his discontent seep through the covers.

I wrap myself in my blanket and sit in the chair by the window and imagine the townsfolk stagger from their beds, forcing themselves to do something with their precious few hours of free time before the Reaping. The bakery will be receiving their usual customers but the prettiest of cakes won’t lighten the gloom that must hang over the simple stone building. A few townsfolk pass by the Victor's Village gates and pause for a moment, already giving their condolences, and are shooed away by the two Peacekeepers.

When I see a new team of Peacekeepers make their way through the gates, I take it as my cue to start getting ready. The lack of color makes me wish there was a bouncy purple wig beckoning me instead.

"Fifteen minutes Miss Everdeen!" One of the Peacekeepers yells up to my window.

Even though I witnessed their approach, my stomach drops at the announcement. I unravel myself from my quilted cocoon and start for the closet. My body protests the move but I have to remind myself that I go quietly with the escorts, or be dragged through town in my pajamas. I have to maintain some dignity.

The pain in my abdomen has subsided slightly, however, there is still a queer sensation of hunger pangs mixed with an overly full bladder – yet at the same time, it's completely foreign and wrong.

It confuses me to think of how hyped sex is, especially in the Capitol. Last year, I would overhear girls at school talk about some kind of pact; when they turned sixteen they would lose their virginity the eve of the reaping, just in case they were called to the games. I was sixteen when I was reaped, and the only possible pairing for such a pact, would have been Gale. His strong, yet gentle hands in places my prep team haven't touched, his grey eyes mirroring mine, his hunter's grace, slow and precise...

I couldn't think about that then, nor can I think about that now. I have death waiting at my doorstep, and I haven't even brushed my hair.

Moving about my bedroom, my thighs ache with every step, making my mind wander back a few years. Madge's uncle had brought along one of his horses for his weekend visit. I spotted her on one of my walks, trotting along the huge property. She looked so happy. I found myself not being jealous of her activity, but sharing her awe in being in the presence of such a glorious creature. I had seen a few horses around the district before; their sweaty manes hanging over scrawny neck muscles and jagged humps of vertebrae, struggling to break ground with rusty plows. But this particular animal, graced with Madge in its saddle, had been raised with Capitol wealth. It was all white with a tan braided mane and tail adorned with white roses. I could have watched her for hours. When she spotted my admiration, she offered me something I could only dream of. Oh, we rode for the whole afternoon, taking turns hoisting each other up onto the gigantic beast. The next day, I was almost late to school, waddling and grinning the whole way.

When I reach my bed, I look down at my father's jacket. The happy memories fall away when I see the once glossy red that tarnished the leather is now a cracked dark brown. "Just part of their games." I remind myself. I fetch the still damp towel from my shower and wipe the sleeve clean. I hold it up, dust off any other soot and carefully hang it in the closet.

Despite the heat, I find a pair of pants made from thick, heavy fabric and slip a belt around my waist. The only blouse I can find that didn't have an intricate plunging neckline was a dark green sleeveless top with tiny gold buttons. I check my exposed arms for any evidence of last night and notice how toned they have become from just a few weeks of training. Panem will not see that frail girl in her mother's dress today. My body feels less vulnerable in this outfit, especially with the oversize boots that complete the ensemble.

The brass Mockingjay flickers in the light, catching my eye from its place still on the bed. My hand hovers over the pin, weighing its influence in my mind, I think back to Bonnie and Twill from the woods, to the rebels in the streets bearing my symbol, to Plutarch's pocket watch. Thread may have used it to silence me, but it won't make me stand down. It may be a game to them, but this time I have a purpose. It is time to stop falling into the past, and start thinking about Peeta's future.

I pin my token to my collar to complete my look of defiance, quickly braid my hair and open my bedroom door.

"Mom! Prim! Five minutes, we gotta get going!" I yell. No answer. I pound down the stairs, calling out again. "Mom? Prim?" I run through the kitchen, dining room and finally into the living room. I find the front door slightly ajar. I yank it open, expecting to find my mother on the other side. Instead, a group of Peacekeepers are assembled on the front porch. The sight of their white uniforms sends uneasy aches through my chest that makes me swallow hard.

"It's time," one says and gestures to the gateway with his rifle. The others follow suit and clear a path for me.

"Where's my mother? My sister? I thought they would walk with me?" I ask, craning my neck to look around the officers.

"We have to go now." The first one says. I start to protest by refusing to move until I see my mother when one puts his hand on my arm. I flinch and pull away, stepping backwards into another Peacekeeper's hard Kevlar vest. I spin around and take a defensive stance. Floor boards creek under the weight of the men as they encircle me. Everywhere I look, I see tinted visors, reflecting my frightened face.

"Goddamnit, where's my mom? Don't touch me! Prim! Mom! Back off!" I need room. I need air. Why aren't they listening? Gloved hands reach out to restrain me. I grab hold of one white vest as leverage as I kick another in the side of his knee. A snap rings out and a muffled cry follows from underneath the helmet. I bring my boot back and knee the first man in the groin, sending him down next to his partner. Before I can turn to fend off the others, I am thrown backwards down the steps onto the walkway, sliding at least five feet on my back. The remaining men hoist their guns to their shoulders and quickly make their way after me.

"Just tell me where my mother is!" I raise my hands in surrender. "That's all I want to know!"

One Peacekeeper turns back to his fallen comrade who is on his knees, head on the ground, holding his crotch, "Sir, what do you want us to do with her?" Groans and obscenities from the crumpled man are all that answer.

"Get away from her! Goddamnit, that's enough!" A voice rings out from across the way. I turn my head and see an upside down Haymitch running into my yard. "Katniss, your mom and Prim are already at the square. It's some new procedure shit they got goin' on. C'mon, guys, if you would get your heads out of each other's asses and answer the poor girl, this wouldn't have happened!"

The unfortunate guard who received my knee to his balls rolls over and throws his helmet off. "Gha, you fucking bitch! Oh god... I thought Thread knocked some sense into you!"

I speak up before any other details are spilled. If Haymitch finds out about what Thread did, we'd both be shot right here in the yard. "I'll go! I'm sorry! I'm sorry! Just let me go!"

The guns don't move. Their captain stands up, still gripping his codpiece. "She's interfered with a Peacekeeper... again. She should get the firing squad!" I almost welcome a firing squad at this point, but then I think of Peeta; he needs all the help he can get.

"Guys, c'mon," Haymitch says coolly with outstretched arms. "It's the Quarter Quell!" emphasizing the words as if he, himself, were Caesar Flickerman. "She's gettin' reaped in less than an hour. Give the people their monies worth, eh?"

The men shift slightly, awaiting their orders. The captain gives one last tug and spits on the porch. "Get her out of here." Without skipping a beat, I jump up and take my place next to my mentor. The remaining men fall into formation around us. I look back to see the captain pace on the porch as he watches us march away.

"I hope a Career rips your tits off!" he calls after me, spitting again. I turn forward and a smile creeps across my face.

Haymitch starts up with another one of his lectures, "I'm gettin' real tired of savin' your ass. I was joking last time when I said you weren't all that bright. Now, I am starting to believe it."

"Last time, I swear. Now it's time to save his," I say and point to Peeta a few yards ahead of us at the main gate of the Village. He has a collection of his own escorts. There is a frantic look in his eyes. I hadn't noticed he had witnessed the scuffle.

"Katniss! My god, are you okay?" He pushes past the wall of Kevlar and leather and pulls me into a tight embrace. The cameras aren't set up here; he must be warming up, because this almost feels genuine. "I tried to help, but they wouldn't let me through,” Peeta stammered.

"I'm fine, really." I pull away from his grasp, glancing at his scared, boyish eyes. It is the same look he gave me in the cave when my face was covered in blood. Maybe he was being genuine after all. Before I can explain, our shepherds move us to the square.

"Welcome, welcome!" A golden Effie sings her traditional introductions.


	3. Red

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will Katniss ever be able to escape Thread's hold, even in the Capitol?

It takes two heartbeats to fill the time between Effie calling my name and Thread to step behind me, slipping one gloved hand around the back of my neck and the other around my wrist.

"New procedure," he growls in my ear, and turns me from the crowd and into the Justice Building, where through a handful of portals, await vehicles to transport the Quell's newest players to the high-speed train.

Peeta shoots a look of confusion to Haymitch and myself. I let Peeta think the tears that streak my face are because we won't be able to say goodbye to our families and not because of the reappearance of my abuser.

I knew I wouldn't be able to fight back with Thread – the smell of coffee makes my center ache again and my muscles tremble. The helplessness I feel keeps me mute and compliant. No one can know about last night. It's a game between Snow and me, no one else. I can't endanger Prim because this asshole wants to flex again.

Peeta and I are shoved into one car, while Effie and Haymitch ride together in another ahead of us. In the back compartment, there are two bench seats that face each other. Peeta and I sit on one side, while Thread and another officer sit opposite. Thread sits quietly with a smirk, never taking his eyes off of me. Peeta, all the while, looks out the window as his home disappears in the distance. With Peeta's eyes averted, Thread slides his hand down to his codpiece and gives a squeeze.

We arrive at the station and shuffle to the train car. Effie is harping about the whole situation being against procedure, however she and Haymitch are ushered along all the same. I watch as Peeta moves wordlessly, trancelike from the day, once again as cattle being pushed into a car.

I remain a few paces behind Peeta as Thread's hand resumes residence on the back of my neck, directing me towards the train. Once my party has boarded the train ahead of me, I feel him flex his hand, commanding me to stop.

"Tribute, I suggest you follow my orders, or I will arrest you for resisting," Thread commands. My heart drops, unaware what his next test will be. All witnesses are all ready on the train, making their way to their private cabins.

"Up against the train, Tribute. Hands up and spread 'em," Thread says sternly and loud enough to make the nearby Peacekeepers turn their heads. Like a puppeteer, he moves me by the neck towards the broadside of the train, a few feet away from the door. I comply and place my hands against the dusty metal. I don't want another scene like this morning – I doubt my mentor would be able to ward Thread off again with his clever words.

"I said 'spread 'em,'" Thread kicks at my boots, spreading my stance further. I keep my eyes down and look at the magnetic mechanism below that propels the train. What can he do here that he didn't do already last night?

He begins to pat me down, starting from my wrists, down my back and to my ankles. Thread works his way back up on the inside of my thighs and stops with his hand firmly on my crotch. I straighten up and turn my hips in shock and protest. "Stop resisting, Tribute." He kicks my boots again and turns me back in place. This time, he wraps an arm around me and takes a firm hold of my breast, while the other hand grapples around my throat, turning my gaze from the electric well to the window above. I can see a hint of golden hair pacing.

"I don't think you understood our agreement last night. You gotta follow the rules in this game, missy. What was that shit this morning with my men, huh?" Thread asks, with his cheek pressed against mine, pushing his body forward, forcing me against the train. His hand leaves my chest and plunges into my pants, squeezing itself between my belly and my belt. Lucky enough, his fingers remain on the outside of my panties.

I shutter and grind my teeth. I cannot let him win. I cannot let them see. I have to play along. I'll be on the train soon. I will. Just say what you have to say and get it over with!

He presses hard with his fingers, pinching my flesh, forcing a muffled cry against my gritted teeth. My face is already wet with tears, what would a few more do?

"I don't give a fuck who you are," Thread continues. "You follow orders, you hear?" He lowered his voice but not the forcefulness of it. The stench of coffee crept into my nose again. I shake my head in acknowledgement. "Tonight, I'm going to fill my mouth with some special, local, lamb chops. Doesn't that sound good? You're mama's already gettin' it processed at the butcher."

Oh god, Lady. That stupid goat was one of the few things that helped them survive my last games, now they truly had nothing to barter with.

"If you go and fuck up again, it's little Primrose who's gonna have a mouth full – if you know what I mean?" Thread finished his promise with a chuckle against my neck while pressing his hips forward. I shrug him off and he slips away, removing his hands from my pants and throat.

With a loud commanding voice, he finishes his charade, "I thought so! Keep moving, Tribute! On the train! MOVE!" Thread gives me a shove in the direction of the door.

I want to run onto the train as fast as I can, instead I move slowly and deliberately. If I appear to be at all frantic, Effie would pick it up in an instant. I can't have her standing up to those men. Once up the steps and into the first cabin, a Peacekeeper stands between Effie and me. The bulk of the Peacekeeper uniform makes all of the officers look twice their size, but this man was huge, his helmet came within a hair of touching the ceiling.

"Alright, alright dear. There she is. You can go now. Oh, I don't know what all this fuss is about. Go on," Effie bats her paper fan at the officer, urging him to leave. "I said, shoo! We have to push off now!" I have to squeeze against the wall to the let the large man past me in the small corridor to the steps. Maybe I was wrong about Effie and the guards. He was no more than a mouse to her.

"I had to tie my shoe," I blurt out before Effie can start up again on me, and I push past her to find my private cabin where I allow myself to fall.

\- O -

The next morning, I find myself seated at the back of the train while the others were having breakfast and tea. I watch as the last bit of everything I know and love being ripped away one railroad tie at a time. My trees have turned into a flat desolate desert. My foot taps anxiously on the luscious red carpet as my hands wring a pristine silk napkin.

The only solace I find is that with every minute is a mile that I am further away from Commander Thread. But my heart aches just the same because I know I am that much further away from protecting Prim from him.

Gale wasn't at the reaping. Even if he were, there would have been no time to hint at any extra precautions needed to keep Prim safe. I will be a world away and the Capitol can still find ways to use her against me.

"Katniss?" Peeta appears in the doorway with a solemn look. His blue eyes encased in soft pink, swollen lids. I hate myself every time I am reminded I am not the only one affected by this so-called national tradition.

Yesterday, I watched Peeta's teary-eyed mother grip her remaining sons tight as he volunteered. He could have let Haymitch stand beside me, saving his mother from the dreaded sounds of cannons, saving her from ever opening the little wooden box, which contains just enough money for a burial. Her over-zealous maternal display must have been a little too late because Peeta never took his eyes from me. He was burning that loaf of bread all over again, right in front of her.

"You okay?" he says softly, afraid to enter the quiet cabin.

"I guess. It's so hard leaving them behind again with no goodbyes, you know?"

Peeta takes a step forward, mouth quivering. "I mean from before. Those Peacekeepers-"

Which Peacekeepers?

In just twenty-four hours, I had so many run-ins, it was hard to keep track. I remember the one incident Peeta had witnessed directly from just before the Reaping.

"Oh, that. I'm fine. For some reason, they took my mom and Prim before I was ready to go. Didn't even hear them leave. It was a misunderstanding and you know how they like to push people around."

"Katniss," he pauses to swallow. "They came and got your mom and Prim that night, while you were gone." I feel my heart stop and contract, twisting in my chest - for which revelation it aches for, I do not know. I turn away and look out the window, watching the shades of brown and tan blur together and I pray he doesn't see my eyes well up from the images of Thread with Prim in our old house flashing in my mind. My mouth turns sour with the threat of rising bile.

Where did they take them? What did they do to them? Because of my carelessness, I put them in danger. I deserved Thread's punishment.

"I... I didn't know." I clear my throat. "How did you-?"

What did you see, exactly? Did you see me holding my torn pants up as I was escorted to my door?

I hold my breath and wait for him to reveal what he knows.

"I couldn't sleep. I heard Peacekeepers outside and I tried to check on you, but I was advised to lock my door and mind my own business. They took them before I saw you walking back to your house. What happened that night?"

I got drunk and Thread raped and almost killed me.

I slowly let the air pass my lips. "I forgot my pin," I say as my fingers find the token on my collar. I blink away my tears and look back at him. "I went back to my old place, and they said I was out after curfew. That's all." President Snow and I agreed to never lie to each other, something I can never do for Peeta. It is my fault we are going back to the Games. I cannot burden him with my sins.

His eyebrows knit together and his hands flex open and closed.

"That's all? They didn't hurt you?"

Of course he hurt me. I was raped!

"No," I let a nervous laugh conceal the lie. "Not at all. Maybe roughed me up a bit." I wring the napkin around my fingers, giving a hard twist. "Think about it, recent Victors going right back into the Games. They can't risk having the Capitol favorites run off before the Quarter Quell, you know?" I may not be as convincing as Haymitch, but Peeta seems to relax.

The games have already begun, Peeta... you just don't know it yet.

My gaze returns to the passing scenery. "I just wish they could have let us say goodbye."

"We'll write letters, Katniss."

\- O -

Peeta and I are left with another night with little or no sleep. Watching the previous Games and Haymitch's victory stole away the few hours we had before arriving in the Capitol. We are grateful for the lack of fanfare as we exit the train in an underground access point to our new home. Opening ceremonies start tomorrow afternoon, which leaves plenty of time for Caesar to fill out the day with back-stories and updates of those on this year's roster.

Effie has been non-stop since the train came to a halt, going on about the new high tech training center and accommodations. Lethargy makes it impossible to listen to, let alone care, what she is saying. Although, I have to admit, the new elevator does impress me with its speed and style as it takes us up to the 12th floor of the Tribute Towers.

The only other thing Effie says that I truly care about is that today is for getting settled. No cameras, no crowds, no waxing, just time to rest and get our 'beauty sleep.' Today is her big, big day, going over every detail of every schedule for the next few weeks. We leave her on the elevator to descend back into her world of mingling and paper work while Avoxes point the way to our respective rooms.

"See you in a minute?" Peeta asks, before opening the door across the hall from mine.

I nod and give a tired smile. I eagerly await the chance to curl up in his arms again since the moment Effie came running through the train shouting about how excited she was to finally be back in the Capitol. For the first time since the Victory Tour, I desperately needed his embrace and comfort while my strength to keep it together was quickly fading.

My eyes ache from staring at the projections of violence all night and the pains in my abdomen have shifted into an odd, dull heat almost fever-like, wrapping around to my lower back. Even though I found comfort in Peeta's arms, sitting on the floor all night has left me cramped and stiff.

"Sorry Effie, I'll admire the room later." I kick my shoes off at the doorway and make my way straight for the bed. I slip my pants off before I retreat under the fresh soft blanket, sinking into the mattress and pillow. I turn over and watch the front door and my eyelids grow heavy.

I'll just listen for Peeta.

\- O -

I feel the bed shift and bounce slightly, rousing me from my nap. "What took you so long?" I say, relishing the warmth that rests behind me.

"Being a stowaway is harder than it looks." My eyes pop open and I turn to see Gale.

"Oh my god, Gale! You could have been killed!" I roll over and wrap my arms around his strong shoulders and breathe in his musky scent of coal and pine as my fingers trace his shoulder blades under his thermal shirt. And I cry. I cry into the scent of home. I cry because the only one who can protect me is finally here.

After a moment I pull away and stare into his grey Seam eyes.

"Hey Catnip," he whispers and pushes aside a strand of loose hair from my face then rests his palm along my wet cheek.

"I wanted to say goodbye, but the Peaceke-" I start to say, but he silences me with his lips. He tastes of oranges. "I've missed you," I say as I pull away from him. I start to speak again but my breath catches in my throat. I am suddenly hit with a new wave of emotion that shakes my entire body. "G-Gale...I'm scared." I try and steady my breath, "I don't want to go back. Last year was different, it's not fair that I have to go back." Gale shushes me quietly as he strokes my hair. "I just- I want to go home. The next time you will see me, I'll be in a box."

Hurt washes over Gale's face and I kick myself for saying that. No wonder why my life is dictated by cue cards.

"That's why I had to see you. At least one more time." He rests his forehead against mine for a moment then meets my lips again. This kiss is different, softer, and full of electricity and fire. I was ready to leave him behind forever, but for whatever reason, he is here now - breathing life into my dying embers.

He parts my lips and his tongue flickers across mine. In the woods he is swift and stealthy with purpose, which also holds true in the bedroom. Before I can take a breath, he positions himself above me, hands beside my shoulders, never allowing his tongue to stray from mine. Just as his presence in my room is unexpected, I give in to the heat that is above me and let the world around me disappear.

My hands run through his hair down around his neck and to his shoulders, letting my fingers discover the new topography. His hands follow suit and make their own explorations - first from my cheek, to the nape of my neck and oh so gently, cups my breast, circling his thumb around my nipple.

I gasp and pull away, stopping his hand with mine. The last time anyone's hands were where his are, it hurt. And it was wrong. Gale questions me with his eyes; scared he was being too forceful.

I think about the look on his face - would it be any different if he were my first? If Thread hadn't destroyed me already? What would he look like if we made our own pact before last year's games? Gale was normal. Gale was home. Gale was always the answer. I'm not going to die with only Threads marks on me. I want to make this decision. So I pull Gale back in and kiss him, fearless for the first time.

There is no hesitation in his movements and his confidence shadows any doubt I have to finally allow myself to give in to my desires. A sigh escapes from my lips and I take a deep breath, pushing myself deeper into his grasp. I break away from his kiss and turn my head, coyly offering his lips to the rest of myself. He plunges into my neck to taste and breathe me in. The sensation from his lips on my neck create sparks that work their way down to my center, which now aches for his touch.

I hate myself for not answering his kiss back in the woods those many months ago. I hate myself for never allowing myself to let him in. I hate myself for never allowing myself to love him back. Now is my chance to make it up to him, to make up for the fact that Peeta has taken his place.

"Oh shit, Peeta." I look towards the door. "He's supposed to be here any second."

"Peeta? How is he going to find us out here?" Gale asks. I turn and look at him hover above me with blue skies behind him and I suddenly feel grass prickle against my bare thighs. The seclusion of our woods sends a wave of serenity over me. I breathe in the scent of pine and fresh air and the thought of Peeta drifts away with the cool breeze from the lake.

My hands work between us, gripping Gale's thermal shirt and bringing it up to his shoulders. He sits up on his knees and tosses the shirt aside. When I move my hand across his stomach to his chest, memorizing every ripple of flesh covering the muscles abused by the mines, he remains still. I turn my hand over and let my nails graze his skin and watch as goosebumps appear in their wake. I sit up and start to pull up my shirt until he stops me.

"Please," he whispers and I let him lift the fabric over my head as his eyes study me with the same intensity he gets when tracking his prey. When my bra is thrown among the shirts, I wait to see concern and worry on Gale's face – I look at my bare chest and belly and there are no marks, no bruises, no pain. Instead see the hunger in Gale's eyes and crash into his lips again.

I suck and tug at his bottom lip, drawing out his sweet moans. He shifts his knees between mine and a strong hand cradles my head as he lays me back down in the grass, using the other to pull my hips closer to his. He leans down and kisses me again as I wrap my arms around his neck. When Gale dips his fingers under the waistband of my panties, my breath catches and I slowly lift my hips up, sliding myself over his middle digit. He touches me with such dexterity that I shiver and rise again. This is how it's meant to feel. This was right.

I can't believe how fast this is moving, but at the same time, I don't care. With every stroke of his finger, the stress and fear I have pent up, begins to fade away.

"Gale," I moan into his lips, "I'm so sorry. I was so stupid before. I should have -"

"Shhh. I know." This time his fingers slide inside and my mind forgets the past. Slow and gradual at first until they find their rhythm, causing me to grip his neck tighter and cry out into his chest. He rocks back and lowers his head to tease my nipple with his tongue and teeth, giving it a gentle pull. I wrap my hands around his head and press him into my chest as I weave my fingers into his thick hair. He works his fingers in and out, up and over my swollen flesh and slips back, deep inside my wet center. Each time drops me deeper and deeper into a pit full of orange, sparkly bubbles.

"Gale, please, hard-" He obliges before I can finish the words. Soon he is moving with my heartbeat - just as hard, just as fast. My toes curl around the blades of grass, my knee rubs against his ribs. I shut my eyes as the sparks start to ignite.

A loud crack rings through the air and Gale's heavy body sinks onto mine and stills.

"Gale?" Heat spreads between our torsos and drips down my sides. I am stricken with panic as I try to move him.

"Oh god, Gale? GALE!" My hands slip off his shoulders with each shove.

After wriggling and twisting, I manage to slide him off and roll him over. All of the color that was in his face is now seeping from his chest. When I touch him, I immediately pull away when I leave a red streak behind. My hands, arms, chest - my whole naked body is now covered in his blood.

"No, no, nononono... wha-? GALE!" My screams echo against the hill and are soon called back by Jabberjays.

"GALE! GALE! GALE!" They cry. I swear they were laughing. "GALE! NO! GALE! GALE!"

"STOP IT!" I scream and cover my ears.

When a shadow falls across Gale, I drop my hands and spin around. A tall white statue of a man stands against the ray of sunlight, holding a pistol.

"Red is a much better color on you," Commander Thread says sweetly.

\- O -

I come up swinging and screaming, still calling out for Gale. Peeta's face slowly appears from a sea of red. He's mouthing something, but my ears are ringing.

"-r awake now... -t a dream... -kay... -ur okay. It's over now, just a dream. Shhh, shhh." Peeta had come in, as promised, curled up beside me on top of the blankets. He cups my cheek in his hand, reciting his speech he developed when my nightmares came.

"Peeta? It's you?" His blue eyes track mine and for a moment, I wish they were grey. "He killed him, Peeta," I spit out. "Right there, he killed Gale! There was so much blood!" I start to shake and sob uncontrollably. Peeta wraps me in his arms and lets me cry.

When the light outside fades to a deep orange, I allow myself to break free from Peeta's grasp, wipe the tears and snot from my face and profusely apologize.

"You really care about him. I know how hard it is for you leaving him behind. Again," Peeta says softly. I look up, ready to lie again, and see a big red welt forming along his jaw.

"Oh no, Peeta. Did I hit you?" I run through my apologies again, holding my hand over the welt.

"It's fine. I'm fine. It was a bad dream, that's all. Although it didn't sound all that bad to begin with." My eyes widen and I feel my face turn red. "I mean, you were breathing funny, and - " he clears his throat, "talking in your sleep." Oh my god... what did he hear? He runs his hand through my sweat soaked hair and frowns. "You're hot. Are you sure you're alright?" I nod, concentrating on suppressing my embarrassment. "Let me get you some water."

As he leaves the bedroom, my gut cramps and twists. The dream has left me flushed and nauseous and even though the heat between my legs has faded I still felt oddly warm and sticky so I sit up and peel back the covers. Panic and confusion floods through me as I see a spot of blood pooling on the sheets.

Peeta, glass in hand, stops in the doorway when he sees me throw the covers back over my lap. I tuck my knees up and bundle as much of the blanket around me, hiding everything from my chin down.

"Katniss, what happened?" He takes a step towards me. Worry washes over his face.

"No, don't!" My mind races, looking for help, looking for the right thing to say. My throat cramps and tears burn my eyes with the realization that the only person I want is my mother and the only option is her polar opposite.

"Get Effie."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am really enjoying going back through my old story and adding some new twists and ideas. The train scene is completely new, and I feel the original was a bit rushed. I hope you are enjoying my silly attempts at putting words together. Thank you so much for reading!


	4. Special Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Katniss struggles with how much time she has left and Cinna reminds her who she is.

Fluorescent lights hum and flicker above me in the cold examination room. A stout, green-haired man in a white coat, sits across from me, ticking off little boxes on a digital note pad as he sips his coffee. I take a strand of my freshly washed and perfumed hair and pull it under my nose, hoping to block any scent of his robust, black beverage.

"How long have you been experiencing abdominal pain," Dr. Antyllus asks, never looking up from his form.

I clear my throat, "About two days."

"And you say this is your first menstruation?"

"Y-yes," I respond, chewing nervously on the side of my thumb.

I had showered and paced my room for almost a half an hour, waiting for Effie. I was convinced Thread had hurt me far worse than I had thought and I was in fact, dying. When Effie arrived, she was livid that I had interrupted her meeting with The Silenus Agon, the mentor from District 1 who had championed more Victors than any other District.

She was mid-sentence about one of Silenus' philosophies when she noticed how uninterested I was in her story - sitting on the couch, knees tucked under my chin, visibly shaking. Through tears, I described my pains and of course, the blood. She then surprised me with a hug. Not sympathetic, but more congratulatory. It wasn't until she went on about how I had finally become a woman, did it occur to me that Mother Nature had decided that this was the perfect time to present me with this…"gift".

With each one of Effie's hugs and squeals, the worry and shock melted into embarrassment from my overreaction. She then suggested I pay a visit to Dr. Antyllus for a check-up, even though bleeding profusely from the most awkward of places was perfectly natural.

"Sexually active?"

I shift in my seat on top of the padded table, crinkling the paper sheet.

Active? Unwilling participant was more like it. I can't tell him about my recent introduction to the activity because my records might be accessible. If I lie, and say 'no', then my love story with Peeta will lose all credibility.

"Uhm, yes."

"How long?"

My mind searches for a time frame as I fidget with my long sleeves, pulling them over my knuckles.

The engagement, that's it. When was that? The Victory Tour… oh god, that was so long ago.

"Weeks, months? A year? How long?" The doctor breaks into my concentration.

"A few months, I guess." Ugh, this is embarrassing.

"Protection?"

"I'm sorry, what?" Puzzlement shows on my face.

"Prophylactics, condoms, birth control?"

"Oh! Uhm, I'm sorry. No." My face reddens in embarrassment. It never occurred to me and with District 12 being so poor; there is little money for contraceptives or education for that matter. My sexual education was accumulated from the hallway gossip at school and a particular group of coal miners as they crossed paths with me on their way to and from work. I had to cover Prim's ears on several occasions as we passed by the filthy men and their language.

Dr. Antyllus glances up at me before checking off yet another box.

"Any medication?"

"No."

"Any narcotics."

"No."

"You're seventeen, correct?"

"Yes."

"Okay," he sets the pad on his knee and finally looks up at me. "Your vitals are good, a bit of a fever, but that is expected. Starting your period this late is not uncommon, especially for girls like you from the outer Districts. Here in the Capitol, girls start as early as ten years old," the doctor says proudly. "I figure from your lack of proper nutrition and high levels of stress can cause the delay. But since your last Games, your diet has improved and you've gained some weight. It was bound to happen eventually. So, voila, you are now a woman," he says dryly before he stands up, handing me the digital pad. "Go ahead and look through this and I'll be right back."

The screen lights up with images of brightly colored illustrations depicting cartoon characters dancing around the screen accompanied by happy flashing letters, "Your Period and You! The Joys of Becoming a Woman!" I groan and throw the device down beside me on the table and rub my forehead. I am slightly annoyed at the fact that girls, ten-year-old Capitol girls, have matured faster than me. They are lucky that is the only blood they will see.

The doctor returns and gives me some blue pills and a small paper cup of water.

"These should relieve your pain. I will have the nurse set you up with some more on your way out. Hold out your arm for me please?" I swallow the pill and lift my left arm. He takes my wrist in his hand and presses a needle into the inside of my bicep. I suck air between my teeth and wince at the sting.

"What was that?" I ask, rubbing my arm.

"Medroxacyclen. Birth control. Good stuff, lasts five years, leaving you completely sterile." He turns and disposes of the syringe in a small orange container next to the sink.

"What? Why?" I am already irritable from Effie's behavior earlier, and now, confusion sinks in on top of an already awkward doctor's visit.

"Minor precautions, Miss Everdeen. There have been incidences in the past," he says as he turns around to face me. Dr. Antyluss leans back against the counter and crosses his arms over his chest.

I do remember one year involving such an incident. I was about ten years old, watching with my mother. The Games were well into their third week, so the initial violence and gore had lost its shocking effect, enough that we were eating dinner during that evening's broadcast. It wasn't until a female tribute had been beaten and stripped completely nude, that my mother suddenly remembered I had homework to do outside on the porch. The next day, with the conclusion of the Games, replays of the victory were aired nonstop. The girl had snuck up on her assailant after the attack and ran him clean through with his spear while he was standing lakeside taking a leak. A year later, she was back in the Capitol retelling her story to Caesar - with an infant on her lap.

"Why give me the shot now? Why not last year?" I narrow my eyes at him. If this were protocol, it wouldn't matter if I started my period or not. If any of the girls from the Seam were like me in delayed development, that didn't stop them from getting pregnant. Callie Hayes, a girl from school two years ahead of me, was fifteen when she dropped out to tend to her newly acquired duties as a mother.

"Like I said, really just a minor precaution. Tributes under the age of sixteen are less of a risk." I immediately think back to the list Peeta and I compiled of the recent pool of Victors - Finnick Odair was the youngest at fourteen and the youngest female was fifteen. My mouth twitches at the weight of the discussion. "We don't administer the shot unless female tribute has begun menstruating," he continues, "as to relieve her of the, uhm, symptoms should her cycle sync with the Games." He pushes himself away from the counter and picks up the digital device sitting next to me. He taps and swipes his fingers across the screen looking for another information program. "The medro will delay your next period for about another four months. So, one less thing to worry about, right?" When he looks up, his smirk disappears when he notices my scowl.

"But I will be dead in one month!"

I jump off the table in a mixture of anger and exasperation, sending him wheeling back on his tiny stool as I storm out of the office and down the hall. A tiny, pink-haired woman stands by the exit, holding out a small paper bag with a smile. "Here you go, Sweetheart-" I slap the bag out of her hand as I stomp past her, spilling feminine products and pills to the floor.

I yell angrily at no one and everyone as I kick through the exit of the Health Center.

-O-

I retreat back to my room and slam the door behind me. I begin to pace and swear as I rub my face with my hands. Receiving the shot isn't what set me off, I would have welcomed the idea back home when I had a future with no children in mind, but the fact that he kept pressing the long-term effects of it upset me. Everyone has been treating me with such optimism, I want to grab everyone by the collar and slap some sense into them.

Last year, no one even looked at me until the Gamemakers posted my score. I want the doubt again so I won't disappoint anyone when my body is lifted from the arena.

In the bedroom, I find a remote on the nightstand. This one is bigger than the one from last year, flashing a full color display of the different devices it controls. After a few taps, I find the hologram wall display and bring up a scene of a forest. This feature has improved as well, displaying an animated setting with leaves rustling in the slight breeze as grouse and sparrows cross the screen and other wildlife are heard in the distance.

I settle down on the floor, lean back against the bed and tuck my knees up as I take in the artificial images. I study the structure of the trees, thinking of how I would climb them. I watch as a squirrel runs along with forest floor and mentally time a release of an arrow if I had my bow. I peer into the distance and try to figure out which direction would lead me to water. I imagine Gale appear suddenly from behind a tree, breaking my concentration before loosing another arrow.

Until now, I have forgotten all about the dream. My eyebrows rise at the memory considering I have never thought of Gale like that before. Although I care for him greatly, the few kisses we shared were nothing more, than what I thought, a slightly stronger gesture of friendship. I felt horrible for what he was going through that night when he was laying on my kitchen table covered in blood. Not just from the whipping he endured, but having to sit idly by as I was forced to play out a stupid love story with Peeta.

I told him I was sorry when I kissed him. I didn't say that I loved him.

I have spent plenty of time thinking of the 'what-ifs' when it comes to Gale. Maybe this particular 'what-if' dream stemmed from our plan to run away before Thread had the chance to hurt either of us. I grieve for the list of possibilities: just the two of us in the woods with plenty of time to see if my feelings for him could develop into something more. Or how Gale could have very easily been my first.

I shut off the hologram and dim the lights while I remain curled up beside the bed. The dream was right to end the way it did. My selfishness would have caught up to us, ending in a disaster. That is why I never allowed myself to feel anything more for Gale; love can blind you from the more important and dangerous things around you. Even the fake love story between Peeta and I made things worse in the long run.

The pain medication must have been stronger than I anticipated, because when I wake up, I am still on the floor with my head on my knees. Not only did I doze off suddenly, I didn't wake up screaming. I try to remember if there were any dreams at all - good or bad. Fortunately, the pain was gone but was replaced by hunger and the need to pee. I shuffle to the bathroom and click the light on and find a small brown paper bag placed next to the sink. I groan at the sight of it and close the door behind me.

\- O -

Hunger leads me down the hall to where dinner will be served. I contemplate eating in my room but Peeta and Haymitch will want an explanation and proof I am alright after the sudden visit to the Health Center.

"Oh, there she is!" Effie squeals. I groan and regret my decision the moment I hear her voice as I enter the dining room. Her enthusiasm over my dilemma unfortunately is still in full swing. "How was your visit with Dr. Antyllus? You know, he was one of the doctors who worked with Peeta last year," she says and leans across the dining table, patting Peeta's hand. "He also looked in on you during your recovery. You're lucky he was here early; all of the other physicians are still getting settled. They don't typically see any tributes this soon."

"It was fine," I say, rubbing the inside of my arm. Peeta and Haymitch are already seated, working their way through an entrée of lamb. An Avox sets my portion in front of me as I take my seat. "I don't know what there is to get excited about," I say as I adjust my posture. I'm certainly not excited about the supply of products I found in the bathroom.

"So wait, you're okay? Why would seeing the doctor be exciting?" Peeta looks back and forth from Effie and me. I lower my head and grumble. Peeta leans forward with a muddled look on his face. "Huh? I don't-"

"I started my period, dumbass," I grumble again through my teeth slightly louder. I raise my eyes and give him a deadly look. He sits back suddenly, his expression shifts from shock to apologetic. I shoot back a snarky nod before I look back down at my plate.

The sight of lamb turns my stomach. That's what Thread said he would be enjoying - a very special lamb. Oh, I hope Gale can help my mother and Prim make up the difference.

"Katniss, darling. Like I said before, you've finally become a woman! A bit late...but, well, now you're all grown up!"

"Hey, enough with the girly talk, huh?" Haymitch grumbles. "I'm sure Katniss has had enough for one day." I nod in agreement and pick up my silverware, and reach across to a serving tray full of crispy brussel sprouts, ready to fill my mouth with food to avoid anymore of this discussion.

"Well, alright then. It's a shame you don't see how special of a day it is," Effie pouts, and slinks down into her chair.

"For fucksake, Effie, enough! She isn't some little girl with her whole life ahead of her! She's a goddamned tribute!" Haymitch yells, slamming his drink down on the table with a loud bang.

Effie's jaw drops and it begins to quiver. "I... I'm so sorry Katniss. I was so wrapped up...oh my." She rapidly looks around as if she suddenly forgot something. "I should... I should go," she announces while getting up and hurries out of the room. I look at Haymitch with wide eyes and his face suddenly softens. He then shakes his head, "Aw, jeez kiddo, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have-"

"No, it's okay," I sputter. "Actually, thank you for that." I laugh at the replay in my head, Effie's wide eyes and gaping mouth, for once with a loss for words. "I have been wanting to tell her the same thing all day." I release a sigh as I pick up my fork once more, "it's just another shitty thing I have to deal with I guess."

"But you're alright?" Peeta asks, setting his utensils down. I nod genuinely this time and turn my attention to the lamb on my plate. I couldn't just leave it – Peeta would worry about my appetite and linger even more tonight. The last time I had anything to eat was on the train, and even then, it wasn't much.

As I cut through the tender meat, it drips with a perfect culinary example of rare. My nose wrinkles at the sight of the blood and juices pooling onto the plate. The thought of Lady getting butchered breaks my heart, but that was for me to feel and not for Peeta to see. I take a breath and put the cut of lamb in my mouth. The flavor mixed with the mint jelly relaxes me immediately and my appetite is finally willing to allow a full meal.

"I will tell you one thing though," I say, mid-chew, "that doctor was a complete prick. You don't remember a fat little guy with green hair do you, Peeta?"

"Dr. Antyllus? Oh yeah, he was only there to change my bandages and check my sutures. He acted like what he was doing was beneath him," he says, reaching under the table, rubbing his leg. I frown at his gesture, saddened at the thought that jerks like Antyllus tended to Peeta. I will never be able to imagine how scared and alone he was. I had only experienced severe malnutrition and dehydration - he lost his fucking leg. "He's probably here early doing the boring stuff like the pre-game physicals," Peeta says bringing his hand back up to his fork and swirls the remaining mint jelly around his plate.

Haymitch gets up from his chair and crosses the room to replenish his drink. "I know it's been a long day, but tomorrow is important. It's going to be your first time meeting all of the past Victors, and though some may seem friendly, it's not going to be all ponies and flowers. Be nice and get along. They don't know you like they know each other, so don't give them any reasons to want to kill you."

I look up at Haymitch while I work through another bite of lamb. "And you, Missy," Haymitch continues, "Keep it simple. I don't want another riot breaking out. Let Peeta do the talking if you have to." He was right to remind me of my lack of skills in obtaining friends and the ability to say the wrong thing. Haymitch raises his glass to his mouth and pauses, "and it would be best to keep your special day to yourself." He smirks and throws back the entire contents of the glass in one swig. He shakes his head and whistles as he admires the empty glass in his hand.

"Gladly," I say as I stab the remaining bits of meat with my fork.

Haymitch sets the glass on the table and heads for the door. "Now, if you will excuse me, I've got a card game to get to." Peeta raises his fingers in a small wave as Haymitch makes his exit. We finish the rest of our meal in silence.

"I've got my notes if you want to go over them tonight," Peeta finally speaks up after taking a sip of water. He leans back in his chair; his closed mouth twists and puckers as his tongue runs over the front of his teeth.

"That's okay, I trust you," I say, sliding my empty plate away. "Haymitch is right; we'll be better off with you doing the talking. I don't feel very sociable, especially after I knocked Antyllus on his ass."

Peeta raises an eyebrow and a slight smile creeps across his mouth, "What?"

I cover my face and groan, "It was so stupid! He gave me a shot." I hold out my arm and point to the injection site.

"So?"

"Medroxa-something, it's a kind of birth control. Can you believe it?" My hands go up in disgust.

Peeta's eyebrows scrunch in confusion, "I don't understand."

"Remember that girl from District 5?" We had studied every Victor for the past twenty years and she was their only Victor in that time period.

"Oh," he manages before dropping his eyes.

I had excused myself from the room that night on the train, before the prologue to the girl's victory. My stomach dropped when I realized which year we were watching and began to shift nervously in my seat on the floor next to Peeta. When he looked over at me, I got up and used the excuse of having to go the bathroom. By the time I made it to the bathroom, I was shaking and my palms were slick with sweat. I flicked the light on and made myself look in the mirror. "Just a part of their games," I repeated my new mantra to myself quietly. I washed my hands and shook them out, trying to rid myself of the tremors.

On the way back, I stopped by the food car to kill some more time; unsure of how long that particular scene lasted. When it had first aired, I was outside studying a list of words for a spelling test. When I returned with two fresh cups of cocoa and some raspberry cookies, Peeta was sitting on the floor next to the video screen, looking down at the tape in his hands. When I asked him how it ended, he just shrugged his shoulders and said it was the girl from 5 that had won.

"That's only part of it. Really, it's meant to - relieve me of any burden having a period may cause during the Games." I say with a low dumb version of my Capitol voice. "What get's me," I clear my throat, "is he wouldn't shut up about the long term benefits. He and Effie need to look at a calendar and see the big red circle around the day that says 'Hunger Games'." I lean forward and set my elbows on the table, resting my forehead in my hands.

"Did you get a shot last year?" Peeta asks.

"Hm?" I look back up at him. "No, it was something about not being sexually ac- mature yet." I hold my breath, hoping he didn't catch my mistake. "I also wasn't old enough." I conclude with the dumb voice. Peeta tilted his head and shifted his jaw, also slightly confused by the doctor's logic. Before he can speak again, I scoot my chair back and push myself up from the table. "I have to try and get some sleep. See you tomorrow at the ceremony?" He gives me a faint smile and nod.

As I make my way to the door, I yell back to the dining room, "You won't have any trouble finding me, I'll be the one making friends with the horses."

\- O -

The next morning, I take my place in the center of the room dressed in a simple bathrobe. Flavius, Octavia and Venia clatter about setting up their concoctions and contraptions to prep me for Cinna. My head is groggy from the blue pills, but I am no longer experiencing the dull ache in my center. Better yet, no nightmares.

"Alright, darling, let's see how these last few months have treated you! Venia, get the artillery ready!" Flavius steps in front of me and I drop the robe, creating a white pool of fabric around my feet.

"Oh, honey!" Flavius lets out a gasp and my eyes shoot up to see him staring at my body. Octavia and Venia step behind him and follow his gaze.

"What? What happened?" I cover my breasts self-consciously with my hands. Oh shit, the bruises. Octavia giggles and bumps Flavius with her shoulder and says, "Looks like someone likes it rough! I don't blame you, Sweetie, with the games and all, gotta get it while you can! Am I right?" I feel my face grow hot and return my gaze to the floor.

Octavia starts to use a salve on my skin, which dissolves the bruises almost immediately. "One of my favorite tricks. No one will ever have to know," she says confidently.

Venia starts to whimper, "Oh, it's such a shame! We should be getting you ready to walk down the aisle, not into another arena!" This gets Flavius' lip to tremble and Octavia grabs for tissues. I look up at the ceiling and sigh again, thinking how ridiculous it is to be standing naked in a room full of blubbering idiots. After an hour, I am grateful to finally have my robe back and to be sitting across from Cinna.

"Cinna, may I ask you something?"

"Anything," he says, sitting back in his chair and setting his glass of tea on the table next to him.

"Have you ever been in love?" I sit back, nervously tucking my knees up.

He smiles and replies with a light chuckle, "Why do you ask?"

I bury my face in my knees. "I don't know... this whole thing with me and Peeta. I'm not sure if I am doing it right," I say as I lift my head slightly, peering back at him.

"Once," he says plainly as he crosses his right leg over his left and laces his fingers on top of his knee. "It was back when I was going to art school; I spent time in District 8 learning about the textile industry. There was this girl, Aemilia, a singer at a local cafe I frequented. She was gorgeous and very simple, whereas I was eager to get my hands on every upcoming style. If you think these Capitol people are outrageous, you should have seen me then."

I chuckle and sit up, excited for him to continue.

"Everyday, I would go to see her, yet she didn't seem to see me. I finally worked up the courage to ask her to join me for some coffee after her set, but she turned me down for being Capitol scum. I was devastated. I realized that I loved her for who she was, and she hated me for who I was pretending to be. I wasn't a Capitol hot shot, just a dumb fashion student. The next day, she barely recognized me without the blue wig and studded pants."

I smile at the thought of him dressed as Caesar, wooing a girl.

"I brought her a white lace scarf that my mother had given me. I thanked her for reminding me why I got into fashion in the first place. It wasn't supposed to be about loud colors and meaningless shapes for the sake of awe. It's meant to bring out the inner beauty a person already has."

"Well, did it work?" I ask, leaning forward expectantly.

"It did. Those were the best four months of my life. I've never met anyone like her since," he says, unraveling his fingers and setting his hands on the armrests. He drops his eyes and presses his lips together.

"What happened," I ask quietly.

"Her brother was reaped," he answers, looking at me with a sadness that shatters my heart. "After the Games, she killed herself."

"Oh, I am so sorry, Cinna," I reach over to take his hand.

He shakes his head and waves me off. "No, it's alright. It was ages ago." He pauses and looks back at me. "She hated everything the Capitol stood for and how they made her brother into something he wasn't. And that is why," he stands up and stretches his arms out, "I have vowed to make sure you, stay you." I wipe away a falling tear before I stand up and hug him.

He wraps his arms around me and whispers in my ear, "There will always be a fire inside of you. Don't you ever let anyone extinguish it. And love? Love will only make it burn brighter."

"Thank you," I whisper back and pull away from his embrace, wiping my eyes with both hands. "So, what are we wearing for the opening ceremonies?"


	5. Allies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Katniss tries her hand at making allies.

Soft shadows dance and flicker around my room, created by my glowing suit of artificial embers. My sleeping quarters are still foreign and mostly untouched, save the bed. The light catch the odd shapes of the decor and transform what little I recognize into an entirely new setting. I drop my eyes to my lap, away from the unfamiliar creatures conjured by the dim light and focus on the fine details of the low pulsing flame. I push myself back into my old home in 12, when the cold nights and hunger kept me awake, curled up next to the small hearth pleading with the damp twigs to stay lit until morning.

Back in 12, survival depended on well placed snare lines and arrows. Becoming a Victor eliminated the anxiety of scrounging up something to eat and burning furniture to stay warm. Becoming a Victor also outweighed the positive attributes: a man in 11 was killed, Darius now an Avox, 12 is in Thread's clutches and Peeta and I are going back into the arena. Thankfully, now that I am in the Capitol, Snow's attention is here, away from Prim. His use of Darius is yet another reminder of his power and it makes me crave the taste of Nightlock.

How many more will have to fall because of me? What else do I have, besides my own life that Snow wants? The only thing I have left is Peeta - and his victory will not be taken from me, even though Peeta's words after this morning's opening ceremony left me rethinking the plans to ensure his survival.

"You're so . . . pure," he said. Everyone is so confident in me, and now, they think I'm pure. How could I be when I have killed people? Or had my innocence torn away on a dusty kitchen floor? Peeta and Cinna were right about the Capitol; they are molding me into something I'm not.

I push the button on my cuff to extinguish the artificial embers of my costume and disappear in the darkness.

The next day, Haymitch expands on his lecture, telling us we not only have to play nice, but make allies too. When Peeta and I split up in the training center, I discover the knot tying station and find the activity almost meditative. Working my way through the assortment of knots, increasing in difficulty, I relax and push aside the events from the last few days. The coarse ropes rub across my fingers, leaving them pink in places where callouses have no purpose.

An hour or so passes when the difficulty of the knots exceeds my abilities and a new kind of frustration takes over. Suddenly, my annoyance turns to curiosity when my left ear twitches at the sound of soft footsteps approaching. My breath stalls and my hands still when someone puts their arms around me from behind; taking the rope from my grasp and finishing the intricate threaded puzzle. I close my eyes when I hear the deep inhale of my scent just under my ear.

"So, Girl on Fire, figure out any secrets to tell me yet?"

"I already told you, 'I'm an open book.' Maybe you could enlighten me with the secrets you already know?" I cock an eyebrow as I turn and meet a pair of sea-green eyes.

Finnick stands a foot taller than me and the lack of distance between us makes my chin tip higher than I want, but it adds to the snooty expression I aim for. I hope here in the training center, Finnick wouldn't just see me as just the survivor Cinna painted me as or the girl in the yellow dress, but the real me; a broken killer just like the rest of them - and in no way, pure. When he leans forward, I take it as a dare to see if I will move away or blush. I keep my head still and bite my cheek as I start to lose focus of his eyes. I refuse to blink.

He lets out a slight, pleasurable hum and says, "About you? That thing with you and Peeta. Complete. . ." He tilts forward another inch with his mouth slightly open and I swear to myself for closing my eyes. "...bullshit." My eyes snap open at his accusation and he is already a step back with a smirk across his face. "You wouldn't know what love was if it bit you in that tight ass of yours," he continues as the smirk turns into a full gorgeous smile. I scowl at his remark even though I know his words are meant to get a rise out of me.

"How would you know? Just because you've slept with everyone in the Capitol, doesn't make you an expert on the subject." I say as I cross my arms over my chest.

His eyes drop slightly and he tucks his lip between his teeth. "What I do is because of love," he says, lifting his chin. "I am sure you've done a few things, outside of that arena, that you're not too proud of. Not for Peeta though. No, what you're doing for Peeta in here isn't because you love him - you are repaying a debt." The muscle in his jaw flex as his lip twitches into another smirk.

He moves past me and steps in front of the table that has various length of rope available for practice. "Peeta, on the other hand," he says picking up a piece of white cord, "is in love with you. Head-over-freakin'-heels." He turns back to me and leans against the table, working the cord between his fingers. I keep quiet, curious to hear the rest of his theory. "You didn't have a choice coming back here. Let's say you were in his place; would you have volunteered, like he did?" His question takes me by surprise, even though I had an idea he would say something like this. I break his gaze and try to find the words to say. He already knows the answer, but repeats his question just to hear me say it out loud.

"No," I manage to answer, "I wouldn't have."

"I thought so. But hey, just in case you can't find any berries this year, you might want to learn this knot." Finnick slips the white cord that he tied into a noose around his neck and pulls up on the remaining slack, miming strangulation with a grunt and crossed eyes. He laughs when I roll my eyes and walk away. His chuckle tweaks in pitch as he pulls the noose back over his head and catches his Adam's apple, only making him laugh harder.

After lunch I hope to find better conversation. Cashmere and Gloss invite me over to work on hammocks and I timidly accept their offer. Just like Finnick, the siblings tower over me with an even more impressive physique. I had less than a year of a decent diet and a few months of training against their lifetime of combat mastery.

"Hey Katniss?" Cashmere asks from the other side of the woven vine. I answer without looking up from one of my knots, trying a technique from the rope station earlier.

"You did really well last year, but I have to say, your hand-to-hand sucks. Seriously, how big was that girl from 2?" She looks at her brother, Gloss, sitting cross-legged just to her left. He lets out a slight chuckle as he continues his task of weaving the longer threads of vine through the mesh. I look up and chew on my lip.

"I could have had her. I was just… creating suspense for the cameras," The sarcastic remark I make is more for my benefit. I don't want to dwell on that memory - it took me three months to shake Clove from my dreams.

"What do you say I show you some moves? Maybe then you will have a chance against Old Man Woof." Cashmere stands up and offers her hand to help me up.

"That bad, huh?" Given the circumstances, I thought I did well in the arena. I even got in a few good hits against the Peacekeepers the other morning. I would just have to do a better job at keeping my distance and getting to a bow sooner.

Cashmere and I suit up in basic sparring gear a few stations over. The padded knuckles on my gloves make me feel vulnerable; I needed my hands for climbing or holding my bow. The vest feels too big on my shoulders. I couldn't crouch without the neck of it sliding up under my chin. To my relief, Cashmere decided against the helmets since we were going to take it slow.

We start off with a few punching exercises which consist of me hitting a circular pad that Cashmere holds up in front of me. It only takes a few minutes before my shirt is drenched and I beg for water. She waves me off, drops the pad and puts her gloves on. "Nah, you're fine. C'mon, let's dance a bit," she says bouncing around. My throat burns and it was getting harder to breath, but for some reason, I step forward and lift my gloves.

"That's it," she puts her gloves up and waves her hand, calling me to step closer. "Let's see what you got, c'mon."

I keep my distance and punch the air, not wanting to hit her. When I swing my right, she steps forward to block with her left arm. Even with the padded glove, her arm was like hitting a tree. She calls me again, this time with both hands, fingertips wiggling from the red vinyl. I wipe the sweat from my eyes and mimic her bounce and step. I swing low with my left this time, hoping to have her lean in and open her up for my right. Sure enough, she leans in to block and I step forward, sending my right high. Before I can blink, she catches my fist in her left palm and cracks me across the jaw with her right.

"Oh shit! I'm sorry!" I hear her yell and her feet trample across the mat as she runs over to me, laying ass up on the mat. "You weren't supposed to step into it like that. I was just going to tap you." Against better judgment, I take her hand and stand up. She disappears while I rub my jaw, swearing under my breath. When I see the bottle of water in front of my face, I accept her apology and drain half of it. I feel the cold water run down my throat and into my stomach, cooling my core for a brief moment.

"There you go. You okay?" She asks taking the bottle from me.

"Yeah, you just caught me by surprise, that's all." I gasp as I try to catch my breath from the cold water. She sets the bottle down and surprises me again when she resumes her bounce.

"Want to try it again?" Her smile is either from encouragement or enjoyment. Something told me to take my gloves off, but my pride got the better of me.

"Yeah, why not." I say, shifting my jaw.

"Try something different this time," I hear her say from behind her gloves. I try and size her up and think two steps ahead of her defense and this time I no longer mirror her bounce. I take a wider stance and shift slightly forward on my toes, thinking back to the fistfights that would break out in the alley by the Hob. I keep my gloves high in front of my face, hunch my shoulders, turn sideways and tilt my left elbow up. I even flick my nose with my thumb and sniff as I try to imitate the men who have "had it up ta here wit yer shit."

"Alright! Let's do it!" She cheers me on. I feign with my left and shift to the right, gauging her movements, waiting for her to strike again. "Scrappy little thing, isn't she, Gloss?" She calls out to her brother who is standing just off the mat.

She finally takes a swing with her right which I am able to block, but I don't punch back. Then she lashes out with her left causing me to lower mine for the block and it opens me up for the one-two I attempted earlier. The right-handed punch spins me around and lands me on my back, seeing spots and tasting blood. The next hit churns the half liter of water in my stomach making me burp up a mouth full when Cashmere straddles me, grips my vest and pins me down.

"Why'd you have to do Glimmer like that, huh?" Cashmere hisses. I choke out the last bit of water pooling in the back of my throat.

"What-" My nose burns from the liquid and my split lip makes me wince. "What do you mean?"

"Glimmer, you little shit. They didn't even send her body back home because of how fucked she was from those tracker jackers. It should have been you reduced to ashes."

How can I apologize for something I was forced to do? It was only meant to scare them away. Glimmer was the only one from the group to perish from the attack. She was also my first kill and I had her mentor sitting on top of me.

Suddenly someone yells out, catching the attention of my opponent, "Hey glitter-tits!" Cashmere sits up and looks towards the insult. I try to look over but the padded vest shoved under my chin restrains me.

"The hell do you want, Johanna?" Ah, the girl from District 7. I thought she was busy rolling around naked in oil for a wrestling lesson.

"Why don't you leave some for the rest of us, huh?" Johanna yells from her station adjacent to ours. I guess she moved on to naked yoga - naked being her contribution to the activity.

"Isn't there a sponsor you should be fucking?" Cashmere calls back, releasing her grip on my vest.

"Oh, hardee-har. You're not the only one who has lost a tribute, you know? Haymitch would've stabbed all of our eyeballs out if that were the case. Probably would've fucked your dry eye socket too, considering how many tributes he's lost to yours." Before Cashmere could retaliate, Atala, the head trainer, runs over to our area, waving her arms and blowing a whistle frantically.

"What did I tell you? No fighting the other tributes!" The older woman huffs and scowls at us, infuriated that anyone would dare cross her rules. This gets Cashmere to stand up and turn her attention to the trainer.

"We're sparring. Don't you know the difference? Just some friendly play. Huh, Katniss?" She looks down at me and offers her hand. When she pulls me up, Cashmere lifts and eyebrow and cocks her head towards Atala. I suck on my lip and keep my eyes on Cashmere, never releasing her hand. She whispers my name and nudges her head again, waiting for my answer.

"Yeah…" my answer is muffled through closed curled lips. I continue to stare at her as I lean over and spit on the mat, creating an egg size splatter of blood. "…We were just playing." My nostril twitches into a snarl as I suck my busted lip back between my teeth. It's Cashmere who breaks first and looks away, pulling her hand from my grasp.

Atala isn't amused and gives Cashmere a final warning as I yank my vest and gloves off. Johanna calls over and asks me if I want to join her for her lesson. I roll my eyes and head for the nearest exit to find a bathroom.

White tiles cover the walls and floor, accented with cool grey trim and stall doors. Black bullet-shaped trashcans stand on either side of the black counter that runs more than fifty feet in length along the bathroom wall. Small white cloth towels are placed between every other sink. Anything that isn't porcelain or plastic is dark smoky grey stainless steel.

Twelve stalls. Twelve sinks. Twelve mirrors.

I don't notice the details of the room until I sit down against the far wall to catch my breath. One of the trashcans, no longer smooth and sleek, lay on its side in the middle of the room, dented and crumpled. The white tile floor and smoky stainless steel was now spotted with my blood in front of the twelfth mirror and the last white towel in line was slowly shifting in colour wrapped around my hand.

I tried to calm myself down, standing in front of the last mirror, repeating my mantra. But when I saw myself with my hair plastered to my forehead and the blood running down my chin, I snapped. I cursed at the feral girl in the reflection I had grown accustomed to hate. She was weak and stupid. This wasn't a game; games were for children and there were none in this year's event.

This girl was stupid for believing that there would be a chance for Peeta's survival. She was weak against the Careers, the Peacekeepers and the Capitol.

I wasn't able to hit Cashmere, but I had to hit something. My anger lashed out; striking the stupid girl in the mirror, kicking the trashcan, punching the black counter top, all while my shouts echoed off the tile and back to me.

The tantrum stopped when sobs wracked my body and I began choking on tears and blood running down my throat. I gripped the counter to steady myself as I coughed the metallic taste from my mouth. The shock of the cold water sobered me for a moment as I rinsed my mouth and wiped my face. One of my knuckles, nicked by the broken glass, continued to bleed even under the water. When I examined the small cut on my shaking hand and I was amazed at how fierce my knuckle wept. I wrapped my hand with a small towel and watched the crimson tainted water slowly disappear down the drain.

Fatigue hit me suddenly and I sat down against the far wall and leaned my head back as my drying tears left my cheeks stiff with salt.

What is Haymitch going to think when he sees me like this? Not only will it further prove I lack people skills, it will also reinforce my opposition to the idea of obtaining allies. If I was forced to make a list of possible allies, it will not contain any names of those who can easily kill me.

Twelve stalls. Twelve sinks. Twelve mirrors.

I miss home.


	6. Touch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Katniss explores boundaries with Peeta in an attempt to move forward from Thread

Without getting up, Dr. Antyllus rolls his tiny stool across the cold room to take a closer look at my lip. With his face inches from mine, I am thankful his beverage of choice this afternoon is a sweet fruit concoction, bearing no resemblance to the bitter reminder of coffee.

"How'd you manage this one?" he asks with the same dry enthusiasm from my previous visit. He has been the training center's physician for the past eight years and with my busted lip and recent introduction to womanhood, I am sure he is bored of me. I'm not too fond of the idea of seeing him either, but I finally gave up my solitude when the white towel becomes completely saturated.

"I told you, sparring." I flex my hand against the stiff white tape that wraps over my knuckles, holding in place a sterile strip of gauze. My hand is puckered and pruned from being submerged in a small tub of an iodine mixture and the dull pain is slowly fading with the aid of cold antiseptic, the same I used in the arena last year. I remember the smell and the cool relief it offered, never forgetting that it is this same milk colored gel that essentially saved Peeta's life and mine. When the doctor uses it on my hand, I feel horrible for letting him use the expensive medicine to treat the consequences of my stupid actions.

"Well, the bleeding has stopped, but it's pretty swollen. Hold still," Antyllus says, taking my chin in one hand and dabs the cream on my lip.

Although the ointment has life saving effects, its taste is retched. My tongue curls to the back of my mouth, hiding from the offending taste and a groan rumbles from my throat as I shoot Antyllus an angry look.

"Yes, I'm sorry. It tastes quite ugly doesn't it?" Antyllus' use of 'ugly' is somehow the perfect word for it and I nod in reply, refusing to let my tongue anywhere near my teeth to form a verbal answer. "Keep it on there for fifteen minutes, then you can rinse it off. I do have to say this is the first that I have heard of tributes training with each other. Don't they discourage that?" I simply shrug at his question. "Eh, I guess this year there aren't the same kind of turf wars or things to prove when you are among friends. Just keep the rough and tumble to a minimum, I don't think your prep team wants to deal with any more split lips next week for the interviews and the Sponsor's Ball."

The one time Antyllus says something of interest, is when I have stuff that tastes worse than pokeweed on my lip. Maybe this 'Sponsor's Ball' is a last hurrah for the Capitolites to say their goodbyes, or the tributes can get in some more 'sweet-talk' in hopes of one more parachute. Either way, it is a question more suited for Effie.

Antyllus hands me a familiar blue pill in a small paper cup. "Here you are, down the hatch." I pop the pill in my mouth and dry swallow it, not trusting the mix of water and ointment on my tongue.

He rolls back towards the counter and spins around in one fluid, well-practiced movement and his attention turns to the digital device, probably to fill out more boring forms regarding my boring treatment. "Now, off you go. Report back to the training room," he says with his back turned to me. I am disappointed that I am not able to return to my room and hide until the games.

I find an unattended training station in hopes of being left alone for the rest of the afternoon. I will hear enough from Peeta and Haymitch this evening as it is. Atala said my attendance is required for another two hours, but I'm not expected to do anything.

From my seat, I see a dark room with floor to ceiling glass walls as orange flashing light pulses throughout the interior. Inside, Brutus is training with his spear, performing a deadly choreographed dance against an array of holographic figures. They have an eerie similarity to the other twenty-three Victors - including myself, which is posed on the mezzanine level of the combat range; bow drawn, arrow nocked. When Brutus sends his spear through my orange projection, creating a dazzling explosion of fractals, my heart skips a beat.

"Pssst. Hey." I turn and see the hollow-eyed tribute from District 6. Frayed, brittle hair crowns his yellowed, sunken face. "You just s-saw the d-doc, right?" I give him a curious look from my seat. He glances at my right hand, wrapped in fresh white tape.

"Oh, it's nothing really-"

"He give yo-... gi- give you anything?"

"I'm sorry, what?"

"Yeah, li- like, some, morphling. You know, little blue p- pills. M- m- morphling. You... you got any ex- extra? Hey, where a- are you g- going?"

Across from the twelfth mirror, I enter the twelfth stall and force myself to throw up. I should have known the little blue pills were more than a simple pain reliever. The last few nights were free of nightmares. Although, I didn't feel the need for the pills last night because the feverish discomfort in my abdomen had gone away, I popped one to go to sleep anyway. I wonder if the morphling slowed me down while Cashmere landed me on my ass, twice.

This past year, I have had every accommodation I could ask for: enough food to feed both Gale's family and mine, ample clothing for any occasion, money to buy the things I couldn't make or find on my own and now expensive medicine to relieve minor aches. I have grown soft.

In the arena there will be no morphling, hot food, soft beds or trainers to break up a fight. If Peeta is going to survive, I will have to feel every cut, blow, burn and sting.

I wipe my mouth and head straight for the combat range. I am exhausted, dehydrated, sore, bruised and pissed off - but can I still shoot?

When I arrive, I watch the last round of orange explosions scatter through the dark room as I wait my turn, bow in hand.

In the arena I will not make the mistake of getting close enough for hand-to-hand, especially now that everyone knows how dreadful I am at it. I will get a bow. I will not hesitate. I will make every arrow count. I will kill my fellow Victors - for Peeta.

\- O -

"Nice shooting yesterday. When you see Cashmere in the arena, you should shove one of those arrows up her ass," Johanna says, clapping me hard across my back. When I turn around she holds her hand out, gripping an unseen object and bounces it around, "Hey look, I'm Cashmere; Beauty of the Capitol. I am so sad that I won't be coming back home to my adoring fans. I'm too busy getting rear-ended by Katniss." She then drops the imaginary puppet and punts it into the distance. I can't help but laugh at her performance and I repay her for the gesture with a simple thanks before I take a lap around the training center, looking for any last minute skills I may find useful.

I soon find Peeta working with the tributes from 6, elbow deep in multi-colored grease paint. I watch for a moment, admiring Peeta's concentration and attention to the detail of the hibiscus he is painting on the female while her partner clumsily spreads the paint across her arm and chest. I can see how Peeta uses the streaks as a background for the flowers and with precise shading and highlights, they look real, standing off the girl's arm.

I step closer to inspect his technique and it isn't until my head is right over his shoulder that he notices my presence. This makes him jump and his brush mushes across the morphling canvas and leaves a streak of soft white over the already perfect flower. The girl doesn't move or notice the interruption; her attention is on her partner pawing at her multi-colored breast, swirling new colors into abstract shapes.

"They seem to be having fun. How about you?" I ask Peeta as he turns his head to look back at me.

"I'm doing okay. I'm trying to figure out how to paint faster. Last time it was rocks. I want to see what I can do with flowers, other than making them out of sugar." He gives a small smile and sets his brush down.

"They're beautiful. But how do you know we'll even have flowers? One year, it was nothing but a white landscape. Their clothes and weapons were black and the only real color was the blood." We had all heard the stories; it was a game too old to have had a playable record. The only way the tributes obtained food or weapons were from their sponsors. That year made the importance of the sponsors more pertinent and our mentors made sure we knew it, thus the extravagant outfits and personality coaching.

"I have to hope, right?" he says as his mouth forms a hard line. I've done it again; I let a stupid thing fall out of my mouth. Peeta is sitting here trying to hold onto some beauty of this horrible situation and I make all of the color disappear. I look away from his disappointed eyes and try to find something to brighten his mood again. There is a small patch of yellow flowers about a foot tall surrounding a frail apple tree. I run over to the display and lie down in the flowers with my arms out and prop one leg up against the tree.

"You've got ten minutes!" I yell from my position. "Make me disappear!"

"Ten minutes? That's-"

"Tick-tock, Peeta!" I smile as I hear him clamor for his supplies. Suddenly, he stands above me, holding a can of yellow paint.

"You sure about this?" He asks, shakily. I nod and close my eyes. Peeta kneels down beside me with his bad leg splayed out to the side. He nudges my hip with his other knee as he leans over and wipes handfuls of paint across my outstretched arms. When he reaches my shoulders, I feel him hesitate before he moves to my belly. His frantic movements tickle and I start to giggle.

"Shhh, you're supposed to be a flower. Flowers aren't ticklish," Peeta says as he works the paint along my shirt and my hips. He gives a few more jabs with his fingers, making me giggle again.

"You're going to blow our cover, quit it," I say and slap his arm. He then reaches out with his yellow-soaked hands and covers my face, wiping paint across my cheeks and forehead. Suddenly, his hand stops over my mouth.

"I said, quiet." He is still smiling but I am not.

Before I can blink, my hand grips his wrist and I yank his hand away. Peeta almost loses his balance and the yellow flowers are smashed under his right hand.

"Whoa, what happened? Katniss, are you alright? Talk to me. Katniss?" he says, staying completely still while his wrist remains in my grasp. Then his blue eyes, washed with worry, make me realize what I have done.

"I- uhm, I'm sorry." I let his wrist go and put my hand to my mouth. "My lip is still sore. You startled me, I guess." With a deep breath and a smile, I hope he is convinced.

"I forgot, I'm sorry. You can barely see it." The remedy I received yesterday sealed my cut over night, leaving nothing more than tender, plump flesh. "You're sure you're alright?" Peeta asks again.

I motion to my leg propped up against the tree and wiggle my foot, "Seven minutes."

When his attention turns to the task of blending my black legging into tree bark, I am free to blink back the tears. I can't be upset with him; he doesn't know what he did. Really, I am more upset with myself for letting his play shock me. I had Cashmere on top of me yesterday with no issues, but why did Peeta frighten me? It was too similar I guess. It's not his fault. If Peeta and I are to continue the act of The Lovers, I can't let this happen again. It is my choice to lie here and let my guard down while Peeta touches me.

He is gentle. He is kind. He loves me. He is the only person I trust. I am safe when I can see his blue eyes.

A few minutes later, Peeta gets up to fetch more supplies and I look at my leg completely camouflaged against the tree. I have to wiggle my foot and bend my knee to see where the tree begins and my leg ends. He has definitely improved considering the last time I saw his abilities were with river rocks. He returns a moment later with a large chip brush and kneels down at my side again.

"What's that for?" I ask.

"I have to finish the rest of the yellow." Peeta says reaching for the paint can. If I was going to get comfortable with Peeta again, now is the time.

"You won't have brushes in the arena, silly." He looks back at me with a puzzled look. I smile and take the brush from his hand. He looks at the untouched portion of my shirt and then back to me.

"You're sure?" he says, clearing his throat.

"Three minutes." This time, my words come out sultrier than I intended, but it gets him to dip his hands back into the paint can. His hands hover over my chest and I can see slight embarrassment cross his face. I look at the crystal blue eyes above me and relax. Taking a breath, I await the application of the cool paint and close my eyes. He is much gentler than before as his fingers start at my shoulder and cross over my collarbone, eventually kneading the pigment over my neck.

The artfully skilled caress makes my temperature rise. I start to share the nervous feeling with Peeta, anticipating the destination of his hands, still unsure if I will be comfortable with the contact. Slowly, his hands dip lower and run along the hem of my tank top, grazing the top of my breast with the heel his palm. I try to keep my breathing steady and my eyes closed so he can concentrate without any judgment - he is just as vulnerable as I am at this point.

Finally, I hear him take a deep breath and clear his throat before he places his palms directly on my chest, slowly working the yellow paint over the black fabric of my tank top. I have to bite my lip to keep from smiling. When he lingers for a brief moment, I can feel his conflict between being an artist and a teenage boy as his thumb flexes ever so slightly, kneading my flesh. There was something about his awkwardness that amuses me and something about his touch that surprises me when it makes my heart race. In this moment, Peeta is the pure one and I think he finally realizes it.

His hands work their way to my ribs, blending the paint with the first layer he placed around my belly. I feel him lean over me again and hear the slosh of paint as he mixes a new color, then his fingers start to dab and flick over the rest of my body as he works in the details of the flowers. His pace quickens and the hesitation is gone as his concentration takes over - I am no longer a girl, but a canvas filling with flowers.

"Keep your eyes closed," he whispers before he begins to dab around my forehead and eyebrows, smoothing the color over my eyelids, his touch even lighter than before. I try to picture the petals developing under the pad of his finger as he grazes my nose and chin. When I feel his thumb linger on my bottom lip, I open my eyes and see his face inches from mine. His eyes move from my mouth to meet my gaze and I am thankful for the camouflage when I feel the heat rise to my cheeks.

"Is your lip okay?" he asks softly. I give a small nod, careful not to shake his hand away again.

"That's good." When he smiles, I fall deeper into the blue of his eyes and sink further into the yellow flowers. I was wrong before when I startled so easily, because at this moment, I have never felt safer. "All finished with thirty seconds left to spare," Peeta continues with his voice low through a smug grin. More like two minutes over, but I don't correct him.

What is it about this touch this time? Is it his warmth or innocence? We have been much closer than this before with plenty of people watching. We have even been in complete isolation, but our contact was meant for keeping the nightmares at bay. This is a different kind of touch, and I like it.

"Ho, Peeta! Where are you?"

Peeta quickly sits up, seeking out whoever was calling him. "Shhh, close your eyes. Don't move." He whispers to me and stands up.

"Hey, Finnick, what's up?" Peeta says as Finnick makes his way up to our station. My heart starts to hammer in my chest when I hear Finnick's footsteps land a few feet away from my head.

"You see Katniss around? I need to ask her something?" I hold my breath and clamp my eyes shut. Finnick hasn't discovered me yet and I don't want to ruin this for Peeta.

"No, actually. I've been here the whole time. You check the combat range?" There is no change or crack in Peeta's voice. His ability to lie is impeccable.

"I did, and it's full. Since yesterday, everyone has picked up a bow. Still can't find her." I didn't think Haymitch was serious when he said that at least half of the victors had put in a request for me to be an ally, but now that the range is full, I can't help but feel a little pride in my skill.

"If I find her, I'll let her know you were looking for her. Where will you be?" Peeta keeps the lies rolling and I find myself amused with how well his camouflage works.

"Down range, practicing with my trident." When I no longer hear Finnick's retreating footsteps, I open my eyes and look up at Peeta whose grin spreads from ear to ear.

"That was amazing," I say from my position among the small flowers.

"You were amazing. Wow, that's weird. All I can see is your eyes and mouth when they're open. Is that how I looked last year?" He kneels down beside me to take a closer look and I close my eyes and mouth for his inspection. "Open your eyes again." He asks as he places his fingers under my chin. His eyes are mixed with amazement and concentration, much like the time in the cave when he searched for any trace of the cut on my forehead that was erased by the Capitolite medicine.

"I've never noticed how pretty your eyes are." I know his comment is complete bullshit considering he has an incredible talent for attention to detail, but it makes me blush and look away all the same.

"What are you doing? There are no cameras in here," I say, smiling back at him. Peeta bites his lip and then stands up, wiping his hands on his pants.

"Sorry, I- I uhm. Practicing, I guess." He must have used up all of his confidence when I let him put his hands on me. I feel horrible for teasing him, I aam sure I would have reacted the same way if I had my hands on him. I stand up and start to apologize but something catches my eye.

"Oh wow. . . we should- we should go." I stammer as I stare at a mound of colors on the far end of the station rise and fall.

"What do you mean?" Peeta looks in the direction my eyes are fixed on. "Oh jeez, yeah." He takes my arm and leads me down the small steps away from the multi-colored morphlings entwined on the floor swirled in paint. From the way the colors were moving, there is no doubt their activities were not part of any kind of training.


	7. Secrets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Katniss learns that she's not the only one with a dark secret.

Step, step, twirl, thrust, turn, twirl, swing, jab, step, thrust.

The quiet echoes of tributes training further down range dampen any audible proof of the young Victor's exercise. His footsteps, precise and sure, tread lightly on the soft mat. Strong fingers effortlessly spin the trident in tight revolutions as muscles rhythmically ripple in time. Artificial light highlights each ridge and contour of his exposed, tanned, torso and a hint of sweat shimmers across his brow. His face is relaxed and calm just as his breathing. Even his eyes appear to be closed.

Suddenly, he spins the trident around his back and sends it into the air, keeping his gaze to the ground and with two gliding steps, he turns and catches the weapon at his waist. It gives a quiet ring as it hits his palm.

"Like what you see?" Finnick asks with his back turned to me. I am amazed he notices my presence, even though I am sure the shadows conceal me among the pillars. His words bring me out of my daze and I realize I am still staring when he continues, "I never did like these training uniforms. Too constricting."

"Peeta said you wanted to see me," I say, clearing my throat and stepping onto the padded mat. After changing into a new uniform and scrubbing as much of the yellow grease paint from my arms and face, I gave in to the curiosity sparked by Finnick's request to talk to me.

The trident starts to move again in Finnick's hands as he turns around. Seeing the flash of metal work its way towards me, I stop and feel the urge to retreat.

"Oh, hey, there's nothing to worry about. You didn't kill any of my tributes." He gives the trident another flip and sets the butt down with a loud bang, making me jump.

"You know how these games work. I just-"

"Did what you had to do? I know. All of us know. Only Cashmere made the mistake of getting too close to Glimmer. That's one part of these games you'll never know like the rest of us."

"Look, if I wanted a lecture from a mentor, I'd talk to mine. I already got an earful from Haymitch yesterday," I say and cross my arms over my chest.

Finnick's stance relaxes and he grabs hold of his trident with both hands and leans against it. "Oh, you've got me all wrong. Sure, I am a fellow contender, but I could possibly be an ally," he says, lifting an eyebrow.

"I don't want an ally. It didn't turn out so great last time."

Finnick gives a solemn nod. "Sure, another thing we all know too well. But while we're alive and kickin' down here, buried deep in the basement, I think we can help each other out."

I hate that stupid smile of his.

"What did you have in mind?" I learned my lesson with Cashmere; trusting Finnick gives me an uneasy feeling.

"Oh, I don't know. Maybe we can trade. You show me how to shoot and I can show you how to use this without poking your eye out," Finnick says, slowly gliding one hand up and down the metal in an obvious attempt to make me uncomfortable.

I put my hands up and turn to walk away. "Nope. I'm done with combat training. Pick up a bow and figure it out with the others."

"I wasn't finished. We can make it interesting."

"With what? Kisses for bulls-eyes?" I say with a huff and turn around.

"Kind of. Instead of kisses, although I do like that idea, what do you say to secrets? You know I have plenty," he says as he resumes twirling the trident in one hand. "And maybe you can tell me what that yellow shit is on your ear."

I rub my ear and look at my fingers. Sure enough, I missed some paint Peeta used to make me disappear into a bed of flowers.

"You really didn't see me?" I ask.

"When? I thought you were hiding in the bathroom again."

I smile and rub my fingers together, dissolving the paint into small flecks. "I was hiding in the flowers."

Finnick raises an eyebrow at my confession. "No shit? Bread Boy has some skills after all. Maybe this year he can score some parachutes with cave paintings."

"Forget it. Just make sure the pointy end of the arrow is facing away from you and you'll do fine." I step off of the mat and head for the steps.

"Cashmere is afraid of heights," Finnick calls after me. I stop and look over my shoulder and see he now has his trident over his shoulders with both hands draped over the shaft; his smile is smugger than ever. "And Brutus, he hates fire."

I creep back onto the mat, my feet driven by his notion. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Like I said, to make things more interesting. And c'mon, how else am I going to get you to show me how to shoot?"

"One hour. That's it. I'll tell you one of my secrets if you hit a bulls-eye."

\- O -

"That's it, draw it all the way back to your chin. Hold on, loosen up your fingers. See how the arrow fell off your bow hand? Okay, put it down. Let's try again."

"Ugh, Dad, this is really hard."

"I know, but you'll get the hang of it. Now, your arrow is already nocked, don't pinch your fingers together. There you go. Okay, when you lift your bow, draw at the same time, like this. See, nice and fluid. That's it, all the way back to your chin. Remember your shoulders. Ah, watch that elbow. There you go. Now... loose."

"Aw, too low."

"But you hit the tree this time. Remember how that felt. Now adjust and aim a little higher. Go on, get another arrow."

"My arm hurts. Look, it's already bruising."

"That's 'cause you're all double jointed. It's a girl thing. Remember to turn your elbow out and the string won't hit you. I'll make you an arm guard for next time. Okay, strong shoulders this time. And when you release- Watch, Katniss, look at me. When you release, bring your hand back to your ear, like you are brushing hair off your face. That's right. Okay, let's try it again."

"It's getting dark. What about the fence?"

"Just a few more and we'll head back, okay? It's too hot for the fence to come on this early anyway. All the power is going to the shops and state buildings. Alright, remember to aim a bit higher. With your arm, don't lean back, you're all wonky. There you go, very nice. When you're ready."

"Dad! I hit it! Gimme another arrow!"

...

"I had fun today."

"I'm glad. It'll be nice to have a hunting partner."

"Naw, you just want someone to lug all this stuff for you."

"Hey, that stuff is food. Wouldn't it be nice to have a little extra on the table? I don't want you to ever have to take a tesserae."

"I know. It just sucks that we can't just buy our food."

"Katniss, look at me, hey, don't you ever, ever, rely on what the Capitol gives us. You might not see it yet, but they don't care about us. Not here in 12 anyway. You know how many hours I work in the mines and all the people your mom takes care of, yet we barely get by."

"But what if we get caught?"

"You can keep a secret, can't you? Well, this is just a bigger, more important secret. You want to see your sister grow up big and strong, yeah? And you want to help your mom by gathering herbs for her medicine? Just do what I tell you and we won't get caught."

"I understand. Hey, Dad? Can you sing somethin'? I like it when the mockingjays sing along."

"Sure. Let's see. Remember what the jabberjays were, right?"

"Yeah. They're like the mockingjays, but they could talk."

_"I was a child_   
_Running wild on the mountain_   
_I knew secrets_

_I collected my charms_   
_and carried them down the great big valley_   
_I felt two eyes on me_

_Of his feathers I'm warned_   
_That he would take every word I_   
_Had ever spoken_

_I held on to my secret_   
_I knew I had to keep it_

_He followed me down_   
_Onto a wilted meadow_   
_His words grew stronger_   
_Deceit filled his wings_

_Gazing down to the water_   
_I find my paradise_   
_and I took out my secret_   
_I knew I could not keep it_

_In the silence_   
_Hiding deep down_   
_Me and my charm_   
_Shall never surface_

_He'll never sing of my secrets_

_I have a secret that can change the way the people think_   
_I have a secret that can change the way you think of me"_

\- O -

"What are you humming?" Finnick asks as he picks out another arrow from his quiver.

"Huh? Oh, nothing. Just thinking of home." After some basic pointers, I told Finnick to shoot a few rounds to get the feel of it. Watching him fumble with the arrows reminded me of when I could barely hit a tree from ten yards. "Stand up straight, you're leaning forward too much."

"You're lucky you're going back into the arena right away. You'd have been pretty popular back in the Capitol humming nothing," he says as he draws back the arrow to the anchor point at his jaw. Even though he put his shirt back on, I can see his shoulders flex under the thin polyester of his training uniform. His posture may be bit sloppy, but for some reason, I don't mind.

"How is the arena better than the Capitol?"

He releases the arrow, sending it high and to the right on the flat, square target. Looking over his shoulder, he says, "You'll figure it out at the Sponsors Ball."

"What, they're going to make me get up and sing? Yeah, I'd prefer the arena too." I get up from my seat on the floor and step closer to Finnick at the twenty-yard marker.

"All I am saying is you might have to perform for those parachutes," he says, cocking an eyebrow.

"You don't mean-"

"You know what, don't worry about it," Finnick continues as he loads his bow again, keeping his eyes forward. "Your engagement might be a better idea than you thought. Believe it or not, these Capitol people have some respect."

"Don't you have someone back home? And you still... perform?"

"Okay, not that much. We aren't as official as you and Blondie. Damn, I keep hitting the top right."

"You're not centering yourself. Straighten out your left arm; you're pulling up when you draw. Bring your shoulder blades together and stick out your chest a bit, like this." I stretch out my left arm and set my right hand at my jaw, easily falling into my archer's stance with my shoulders back and chest out.

Finnick's eyes drop and he gives a wicked grin. "I think I get it now."

"Oh shut up, get another arrow." I give him a playful shove and look over my shoulder to see how interested the Gamemakers are in our session. I lean forward and lower my voice. "You know Peeta and I aren't really official. We only did it because Snow thinks-"

"Those berries were a big middle finger to the Capitol?" Finnick whispers, glancing up at the mezzanine. "I think Haymitch is right, you're not smart enough for that kind of stunt."

"Gee, thanks. I wonder what else you and Haymitch have to say about me," I mumble and think how horrible an idea this is.

"You and Peeta need to spice up your act. People are already getting bored and from the little whispers left on my pillow, the outer districts couldn't give a shit about the wedding."

Stepping back, I watch Finnick fire a few more rounds and try to focus on his shooting instead of his comment regarding Peeta and myself. Finnick is actually listening to my instructions and the arrows start to fall closer to the center.

"Much better," I commend much louder this time, keeping the training portion of our conversation as natural as possible for those bothering to listen.

I step forward and lightly place my hand on Finnick's shoulder and quietly continue the other part of our bargain. "I still can't figure out why they think I'm anything special in the first place."

"You also took out a Gamemaker. The dirtiest, most fucked up Gamemaker, I might add. So why stop there?"

"All Gamemakers are fucked up, what do you mean?" When he pulls back the bowstring, I can tell from his shoulders he has become tense from the new topic.

"Let's just say he plays a dirtier game outside of the control room. I'm glad he's dead." He puts emphasis on this last word when he fires, then immediately sets down his bow and heads for the target to retrieve his arrows.

Suddenly I realize it wasn't just the rich Capitol citizens vying for his attention. Who else would be more obsessed with the Victor than his own Gamemaker? My nose wrinkles at the idea of two men together and the thought of Finnick running his fingers through Crane's ridiculous beard.

"Here I thought running from tribute-faced mutts was screwed up. What do you think about Plutarch?" After our little chat at the party, I was curious about Plutarch's motives and maybe a different Gamemaker would ease the tension.

"I'm surprised they let him come back as the Head Gamemaker." Finnick returns to the line with a full quiver, ready for another round and from the look on his face, another topic. "He was pretty close to getting the same treatment as Crane."

"Watch your posture." I step forward again and place my hand on his shoulder, muscles flicker under my fingers. "Bring your shoulders back and drop your elbow a bit, it's too high. There you go, remember to breathe." I step back and line my sight up with his. "When you're ready." Finnick slowly breathes out and fires. The arrow plunges into the target just outside the red of the bulls-eye.

"There you go, much better. Try it again." I clear my throat, not sure if Finnick is ready to continue our conversation, but my curiosity urges me to ask him about Plutarch. "So what did he do to step down?"

An odd grin appears on Finnick's face, like he remembered the punch line to an inside joke. "He offed that mayor's kid, remember? That boulder that came loose from the 'earthquake.' " Finnick pulls another arrow and nocks it with ease while he speaks. "A lot of people lost a lot of money on that game. Plus, Snow wanted to prove to the districts the higher ups were untouchable."

"So why would they let him back in?"

"You have a certain effect on people. I guess he is the only one who isn't afraid of you."

Finnick is right. Plutarch said no one else stepped up because of the responsibility of how the Games turn out. Really, no one wants the responsibility of making sure I don't survive.

I look back up to the mezzanine and sure enough, Plutarch is standing at the railing with his eyes on me. Shouts from a few stations over draw my attention and I think up of another question for Finnick.

"What's up with Johanna?" I motion to where Johanna is jumping from obstacle to obstacle, chasing after a trainer with a foam weapon. Her war cry can be heard echoing off of the walls. "Looks like she finally found her uniform. Seriously, why all of the nudity? Did you hear about the elevator?"

"Oh that? That's her way of being in control, I guess. She's lost a lot since she won. She may seem crazy, but that's her way of keeping it together, especially being so far away from her home in 7."

Coffee fills my senses and my stomach lurches.

7.

_"I've had victors before... 4 and 7."_

"Wait, she's the only female Victor from 7, right?" Johanna's behavior doesn't make sense to me, especially if what Thread said is true, but who else could it have been?

"Yeah, why? Damnit, so close."

"You know the rules, hit a bull and I will tell you what I know."

"Fair enough."

Finnick's silence tempts the words from my mouth; my throat contracts, desperately trying to keep them in, but my tongue betrays me.

"I might have something in common with her." I continue to watch a screaming Johanna being pulled away by two assistants as she throws broken bits of foam at the poor trainer on the floor.

"What, because you're the only females from your districts?"

"No. I think we may have gone through some of the same stuff back home."

Suddenly, Finnick is standing in front of me, arrow in one hand, bow in the other. I look up at his green eyes, too stunned to move. Finnick hisses so as not to raise his voice and call attention from the other tributes. "Don't you ever compare yourself to her. You have a family. You have Peeta. You still have your dignity. She would've had everything if it weren't for..." he pauses to compose himself, but really it seems like he is holding something back. "She was forced into these games. You volunteered."

"You think I had a choice? My sister was called, goddamnit!" My voice almost cracking in the attempt to keep a low volume. "Johanna's name was drawn by chance."

"On purpose! They rigged it! Because of something she did, she was forced."

Finnick keeps his voice low, but raises the arrow, bringing fletching just inches from my nose. "That girl has been to hell and back, and you say you two have something in common."

"Forget it. This was a bad idea," I mutter and lower my eyes. There is much more to this game than I will ever understand and I am still a rookie compared to these other Victors. Who knows what they have done to stay in the game.

From our position, Finnick turns and fires at the target. "Huh, would ya look at that... a bulls-eye."

I look up at the board and sure enough, the arrow found its way to the center. "Now tell me, what is it that you think you share with Johanna?" His posture shifts and he narrows his eyes at me.

"The same thing as someone from 4."

"The hell is that supposed to mean?"

"I- I... Uhm," I stammer, unsure how I should answer. "Another female Victor from 4, I mean. Maybe from the last ten years."

Finnick's brow furrows for a moment and I can see him piecing everything together as I rattle on about the Victors from 4. Suddenly his eyes grow wide at his conclusion.

I start to count my fingers and name off the list of girls from his home district. "There's Dana, Saranda, Lorne and... uhm, Anna? No. An-"

"He never hurt her. I made sure of that." He lets the bow fall to the floor. Picking up his trident, he turns his back to me; his shoulders now sag with a sigh.

This game of secrets is becoming something we both regret. Before I can say another word, the trident is hurled at the target. It lands right in the center, snapping his previous arrow.

"What do you know about Peacekeeper Romulus Thread?" Finnick asks, keeping his back to me.


	8. Control

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Johanna lays down some knowledge and Katniss takes matters into her own hands.

After our training session, Finnick had triggered something in me that left me hungry for more information about what happened between him and Thread. We were at a standstill on that combat range, unable to say exactly what happened, but came to an understanding. Thread had Finnick and Johanna, I knew that, but how? My mind kept churning different scenarios, keeping me awake in a clustered cycle between what Thread did to me and what he could have done to them.

For the next few days, Finnick and I just talked in passing or at the lunch table about anything that didn't involve a certain Peacekeeper. Even if I had the courage to ask him, any information gathered at this point would be useless considering there are only four more days until we go back to the arena.

Four more days until our pain and abuse will be over.

At lunch, I look around and see that everyone is also aware how much time we have left. Conversations become shorter, comments really, and some are starting to eat alone or with their district partner.

Peeta and I stay together in our usual fashion, and like the others, our attention is drawn to the plates in front of us. The Careers: Cashmere, Gloss, Enobaria and Brutus sit the furthest away from the main group. Their once friendly demeanor starts to turn into whispers and sideways glances shot in our direction.

Finnick and Mags share our table but sit at the other end. Finnick quietly keeps Mags company with stories from home while she dips a finger into her third serving of pudding, wiping the cup clean before sucking the last little bits from her fingers. I look back at my plate that has scarcely been touched. My stomach must also be aware of how many days are left. I know I should be eating whatever is available to prepare me for the Games, but I feel as if my body is already accepting the fact it won't need much more to last me for another week.

"Hey, sunshine!" Johanna gives a cheerful greeting as she slams her lunch tray down on the table across from us. Mags doesn't look up, but I can see a slight smile cross her face. "You're lookin' mighty fierce today, Katniss. Plannin' on throwing those bags under your eyes at some careers?" she asks before she takes a big bite of bread.

"Afternoon," I mutter, returning my eyes to my plate, annoyed with how she can be so chipper when the clock is ticking.

"Grumpy too. That'll scare 'em off. How you doin' Peeta?" she says, giving him a wink.

Peeta clears his throat and gives a curt nod, "Johanna." Ever since her show in the elevator, he gets a silly grin on his face when he sees her.

"Effie likes to make sure we are up, up, up! at least two hours before prep and training," I mutter, pushing bits of mashed potato around my plate. I would rather her, and any other opponent, to think my lack of sleep is from the rough hours during training and not because I'm afraid to sleep. I'm not only afraid of where my mind will go, but what will happen in the next four days.

Since I flushed the morphling pills, I've tried to convince myself that I could get to sleep on my own. But when I hear the click of the automatic locks around midnight, I know I've made a mistake by not sneaking over to Peeta's room earlier. So I lie awake staring at the ceiling until I am too tired to dream.

"My first escort was like that, until after my Games," Johanna says between bites. "I stopped her wake up calls with an ax through her pretty green wig. You should have seen it! Her wig stuck to the wall as she ran away screaming! I think she was more worried about being seen with a bald head than my accuracy."

As much as I would like to do the same with Effie, I keep quiet and force a spoonful of mashed potato in my mouth.

"Oh, don't tell me you're being antisocial like the rest of those meat-bags?" she says with a full mouth.

"Hard to be social with someone when you might have to kill them." I keep my eyes to my plate.

"Come on, there's plenty to talk about. Kill some time before we kill each other, yeah?"

"What do you want to talk about?" I say, setting my spoon down and crossing my arms. "The Sponsor's Ball tomorrow, or the training scores? How about the interviews before..."

"We finally get out of this dump?"

I'm puzzled by her response.

"Even if the arena is a hellhole, it's better than being cooped up in here," she states firmly. "Sure, I could go on about how much I want to shove my boot up Snow's ass and walk back home to 7, but what do you think that'll that get me? Treason? Firing Squad? At least out there, I'll still have my axe in my hand when... if, it happens. Maybe I'll get a few more kills under my belt. My belt, not some piece of shit sequined, tasseled, pink belt..." Johanna trails off, cursing her stylist in between bites of bread and smoked ham. "Sorry aprons aren't part of the uniform, Peet."

Peeta gives a nervous chuckle and scoots his chair back. "I'm going to get some more bread. Katniss, you need anything?"

I shake my head and give a small smile, even though I'm jealous of his clever escape from Johanna's crude ramblings. I turn my attention to my water and take a sip, hoping she will take the hint that I am not up for much conversation. I don't want to risk the chance of accidentally bringing up something we all know too much about.

Johanna watches Peeta walk back to the buffet counter, and then she leans across the table and whispers to me, "Alright, you gotta give me the deets on Bread-Boy over there. He stick it in your oven yet?"

I nearly choke on my water and slam down my glass. Before I can grab a napkin to sop up my mess, she continues with a mischievous grin, "Ho, ho! Peeta hasn't lit your fire yet! No wonder you look dead already. I'm tellin' ya, a solid lay will put ya right down. Has he even kneaded your dough yet?" She flexes two hands in the air.

With the napkin pressed to my mouth, my wide eyes belay my embarrassment.

"Johanna!" I hiss as I lean forward. My overreaction seems to have fueled her for another suggestion.

"All I'm saying is if you're fresh out of booze, pills or sex, the best sleep remedy is, as always, your trusty friend," she winks, lifting her hand and waving her fingers.

I shake my head and give her a muddled look.

"Got to get on with the self-lovin', you know what I mean?" Johanna says, wiggling an eyebrow.

Taken aback, I feel my face grow hot and I look around, hoping no one has caught onto our conversation. "What's wrong with you?" I hiss. "How can you talk about something like that at a time like this?"

"You think I should be moping around hating the last few days of my life? I'd rather be showing my wrestling trainer a few more moves back in my room." Johanna winks and takes another bite of her bread, chewing with a big smile.

"Well, I can't afford to think like that. And what you've been through, I can't see how you can either," I say, dabbing water spots off the front of my shirt. Finnick has put a complete halt to his stories and turns his attention to Johanna. In their silence, I realize what I have said and look up expecting another one of her famous outbursts.

Instead, she replies with a huge guffaw while Finnick keeps a careful watch.

"Snow may control the Games or even who fucked me if they had enough coin. But hear this: I'm in control of when, where and how I get off. Seriously, I have no regrets about the things I do, because I chose to do them." Johanna says loudly, proudly tapping at her chest with each accented word.

"But how can you even do something that someone like... Snow used against you?" I ask quietly, stealing a quick glance at Finnick, making sure I'm not about to cross any lines.

"You're not always in control, but when you are, why not enjoy it?" she says, leaning back in her chair, folding her hands behind her head.

I see a slight nod from Finnick and he turns back to Mags, picking up where he left off about some fisherman's tale about 'mermaids.'

Keeping her eyes on Peeta as he starts his walk back to our table with a full tray of food, Johanna quietly concludes her suggestion before he gets too close to hear, "I'm serious about what I said. You'll be out like a light. Or is a little handy work too hot for our Girl on Fire?"

With a sigh, I drop my head in my hands and Peeta sits down in his seat next to me. "What did I miss?"

My sigh turns into a groan when I hear Mags start to laugh.

\- O -

Later in the evening, Peeta and I are escorted to our rooms by Effie who is going on and on about tomorrow's Sponsor's Ball. All the while, I roll my eyes and drag my feet, dreading every detail coming out of her tangerine colored mouth.

"Remember children, tomorrow you will have to be up early for your prep team! With your training and all, I am sure they will have a lot of work ahead of them. So get straight to bed! You want that beauty sleep for your sponsors!" Effie sings as she shoo's us down the hall while her tiny shoes tap the beat.

When we arrive at my room, she pulls the door open and shoves me inside before I have the chance to utter one complaint. The door slams shut behind me and I hear a muffled Peeta say his good nights and thank yous before Effie's tickity-taps disappears down the hall.

I shuffle straight to the bathroom to begin my after training routine: tug my braid loose, groan a melody as I strip off my filthy uniform, press the three buttons I know to be safe in the shower, and stand under the water until I feel the salt leave my skin and the ache from my muscles.

After the shower, my appetite tugs at me for something, anything, to eat. With my towel still wrapped tightly around me, I find a green apple in a small fruit basket on the window-side table set out to make the room more welcoming. I'm surprised the apple isn't made of wax because I could swear that same fruit basket has been here since I arrived. When I bite into it, cracking through the firm skin, the freshest, perfectly sour juice hits my tongue. I shake my head and wonder if this is a Capitol creation or from another District, because we had nothing this flawless back home.

I pick out a tank top, underwear and silk bottoms to wear for bed, and when I let my towel fall to the ground, I think about Johanna.

I turn to the full-length mirror on the wall and for the first time since the Reaping, I look at myself. I truly look at myself, just me, not covered up in a polyester uniform or in an old leather jacket. I notice new curves since I stood in front of the mirror in Cinna's simple yellow gown. If I were to put it on now, the front would no longer need the padding he added in lieu of me being altered, and the straps would hang a bit prouder on my shoulders. Petite, pale, smooth legs wouldn't be peaking out from under the hem, but broader calves with newer scars would show.

With the apple in my hand, I vaguely remember a similar image of a nude woman with an apple in an old storybook. I don't know what all the fuss was about, I guess I was too young to understand the symbolism. I shrug and take another bite, studying my face as my jaw moves. Although fatigue shows in my eyes, they are no longer scared or feral. My face is clean of blood and grime; it almost glows in the soft light of the room.

This must be what Johanna feels when she looks in the mirror, to see that she is not broken or frail or even resembling the child that she was in the arena. I feel a sense of pride with my shape and strength in the lines and angles of my body, but not the same pride as Johanna to go traipse around the hallways or elevators.

Even with a slight new confidence in myself, I still feel the urge to cover up and slip on the tank top and underwear. Once in bed, I give the voice command to dim the lights and settle into my next routine of staring at the ceiling.

And I wait.

Soon, my finger is tapping and my foot shakes idly.

"You're not always in control."

What happened to Johanna, I wonder. She let on that she was like Finnick, being used by the rich Capitol citizens. But how did Thread get to her? Snow has his ways of enforcing his rules. Could he have used Thread to get Johanna back to the Capitol to perform? Or was it her refusal that earned her his punishment?

I wonder where I would be if the rules didn't change and I became the sole Victor, or if Peeta would be entertaining the green skinned, blue lipped, upper class if I kept the berries in my mouth.

But how is she not broken? How is she so confident?

"I have no regrets about the things I do, because I chose to do them."

I chose to lie in the flowers, and that didn't turn out so bad I guess. I chose to let Peeta stay in my bed and he never hurt me. But I also chose to visit Haymitch that night and empty that bottle. I chose to stand up to Thread.

I kick the covers off and drop to the floor, forcing myself to do push-ups until I lose count and the twisting ache in my chest moves to my arms instead.

I can't think of the choices I have made, but of the choices I will make; ensuring Peeta gets his victory means I will die, and that's more important than the past.

Maybe tonight I should go to Peeta's room, because mine suddenly feels empty and cold without him.

When the clock chimes a little tune for midnight, I run to the door; just as my hand closes around the knob, I hear the locks click.

"No..." I sigh, and with a huff I fall back into bed.

And I wait.

"You'll be out like a light."

It's such a stupid idea. My hands rest on my belly and my fingers start to tap again as I regret throwing out those blue pills.

"Why not enjoy it?"

How could I enjoy something like that? Thread, the camera, that horrible dream...

But at this moment, there are no cameras, no eyes, no Thread and no sleep for nightmares. I am safely locked in my room, alone and wide-awake.

Johanna must have been teasing me like the others had, trying to make me uncomfortable. Yet somehow, I become curious and wonder if she was actually being serious about her remedy.

Fingers continue to tap on the bare flesh between my tank top and underwear.

"Or is a little handy work too hot for our Girl on Fire?"

Part of me wanted to tell Johanna everything, that I'm not some sweet, pure, little girl. I've done... stuff.

Back home, Madge teasing me about my inexperience mostly out of boredom and sheer curiosity sparked my personal experimenting. It never amounted to much. I wasn't even sure what I was accomplishing, but it was one of the few times I could be selfishly alone. Only a handful of times did I have the opportunity to partake in such an activity: during the summer months when my mother was away for days at a time delivering babies, or Prim was out late at a friend's house.

The tapping stops when my finger runs across the plain cotton fabric of my underwear.

"Damnit, Johanna," I mumble to myself and slip my fingers under the elastic. Staring up at the ceiling, my fingers gently explore the different textures of soft curls and smooth flesh. My hand stills when my middle digit slides further down and dips into a slick heat. Fighting the urge to try Johanna's remedy must have awakened something that was eagerly awaiting my attention.

I take a deep breath, close my eyes, and reluctantly start to move my fingers, slowly swirling them over my most sensitive spot then back down to my center. Concentrating on how I feel under my fingertips, frustration begins to take over. This never worked for me before, but there has to be something more to it.

This time it felt wrong. A twinge of guilt stops my hand. I should be concentrating on the Games or even that stupid party tomorrow night. Not only do I feel guilty, I'm slightly embarrassed to be touching myself after what Thread did.

If this is one of the ways Johanna can be in control, why cant I? These are my hands. This is my choice. This is my last ditch effort to get some sleep. That's all.

Besides the guilt and the embarrassment, it feels different. I'm not awkwardly in the woods with my hand down my pants listening for Gale's silent footsteps to suddenly appear, or at home listening for Prim to trample up the creaky front steps.

I'm alone. I'm safe. I'm in control.

I let my mind wander.

I think of the safest place and the safest person I know - I picture myself laying in the same yellow flowers from training, but this time in the meadow and Peeta is with me. I think of his steady artist's hands when he made me disappear, wondering how his touch would feel under the fabric of my uniform.

I let my left hand wander.

Fingertips delicately skip across my belly and dip under my nightshirt. They trace my ribs, just under my breast. They venture over my nipple and skim across my collarbone.

My hand explores my curves as if it were Peeta's, unfamiliar to the soft skin and gentle rise and fall of hips and breast. Stopping briefly at interesting peaks and valleys, I test my reaction to its touch, caress, pinch and squeeze.

I picture Peeta's blue eyes wide in intrigue and they soon disappear when he dips down, bringing his mouth to my warm bare skin and follows the path of his fingers, tasting their journey.

My left hand twists in the bed sheet. I swallow hard and let my lifted knee fall to the side.

The scent of cinnamon and vanilla fills my senses and suddenly I want more.

My mind and fingers fall deeper.

Suddenly my hips crave the weight of his, my neck his lips, my breasts his hands.

He's said my name a hundred times, but what would it sound like in my ear? Breathless and hungry?

 _Katniss_.

What would it feel like to have his teeth graze my neck? His nails rake across my back? To have the eloquently spoken baker's son ravish me? To fuck me? Surely he can't be as pure as the white flour.

I pause for a moment, startled by the path my thoughts have taken. How could I think of Peeta like that? He's kinder than that. He's gentle. I shake my head and I hear him again.

_You okay? Does that feel good?_

I nod and my mind and fingers move faster.

Flour, sweat, lips, flowers, touch.

_Katniss, you're so wet... I want to taste you._

No longer am I able to hold onto one thought, or one picture. My pulse thrums a rhythm of unknown desires. My teeth chew on my tender lip.

Breath, dust, trees, meadow, wet, hard, soft, white, dark.

Suddenly that something I have been missing begins to build. I hold my breath and I don't want to let go.

Rough hands, blue eyes, hard floor, white hair, pulled hair, yellow paint, orange bubbles, vanilla, cinnamon. Coffee.

I shake my head and clear my throat. For some reason, I keep getting mixed up.

Control. Control.

Focus.

Breathe.

Blue eyes, soft hands, vanilla, smile, yellow, orange. Slow.

But I don't want slow. I am close to whatever that something is and I don't want to slow down. My fingers move faster. My core tightens and I lean forward, my head rising off of my pillow. I want his blue eyes in the dark above me. I want the sound of his moans.

I want...

I...

I want his fingers...

Around my throat.

I gasp at the thought and cry out as a sudden heat rolls over me. It leaves me breathless and trembling at the instant relief and clarity of Johanna's remedy. My left hand is still twisted in the cotton sheets, my right too afraid to move from its embrace as I try to catch my breath.

It wasn't supposed to happen like that.

The ceiling comes back into focus, but as fast as I came undone, it is blurred by tears.


	9. Duty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Katniss and Peeta meet their sponsors responsible for their survival in the last games.

"Shhh! Quiet, will you? You know we're not supposed to wake her. You don't wake up a Victor, remember?"

"We can't let her sleep all day, can we? There's too much to do."

The heavy goose down comforter, bundled over my head, muffles the strange voices that stir me from my sleep. I lie awake for a moment and try to figure out who exactly is in my room before I peek out from under the pristine white fabric.

Two figures stand at the edge of my bed quietly hissing and hushing each other. From the way they are dressed, it is hard to see someone with half a shaved head of purple hair or puffy orange spikes as a threat. Although, the quiet one with straight, long black hair standing on the other side of the room idly toying with a nail file, leaves me wary.

"Oh look! She's awake!" the orange one squeals in delight, clapping his hands together.

"How can you tell?" his partner asks, tucking a strand of purple hair behind her ear as she leans forward looking for any signs of life.

"See her darling little eyes under that nest of hair?"

My fingers hold the blanket firmly across the bridge of my nose and I remain silent. Where were Flavius, Octavia and Venia? Who the hell were these people in my room and why didn't I hear them come in?

The woman with the black hair steps forward, twisting the tip of the nail file against the pad of her finger, "I suggest you come out from there soon so we can get started. Darling." She forces a smile that makes me grip the blanket tighter.

She is much taller than her counterparts especially with the impressive height added by her shoes. Wearing only black, just like her hair, she is plainer than Cinna – not a speck of color, and even her lips appear to be grey. Her accent, husky and as dark as her appearance, is quite Capitol with an extra flourish.

"Who are you? Where's Effie?" I croak beneath the covers.

"She is downstairs taking care of other arrangements. My name is Claudia Simard. My assistants are Bolland and Veronica. We will be your prep team for this evening," she says, tucking her hands behind her back.

Her demeanor is quite mature, especially compared to her associates, but with the possible alterations and body manipulations, she doesn't look a day over twenty. From what I have seen so far, if she has been altered, it wasn't cheap; the only thing hinting at her actual age are her eyes, which seem to be the only display of any color at all – a stunning ice blue.

I sit up slightly and see that a table and chairs have already been set up along with a small cart full of cosmetic supplies and another with food. How did I not hear them come in? Did I sleep through their preparations?

"No. Wait." I rub my eyes and sit forward, no longer hiding behind the shield of the blanket. "Cinna is my stylist. Are you sure you have the right room?"

Claudia rolls her eyes with a huff, "Yes, Miss Katniss Everdeen: Victor of the 74th Hunger Games from District 12, room 1208. Recently engaged to Mister Peeta Mellark, who shares you status as Victor." Taking a breath, she sweeps her arm across the room to the bathroom, "Now if you would please, get up so we can get started."

Bolland nods with a smile, perfect white teeth peering behind blue lips and he mimics her gesture.

"Come on dear," Veronica sings cheerfully and begins to pull back my blanket. On impulse, my fingers tighten over the fabric and hold it in place across my lap. Six incredibly unfamiliar eyes widen at my stubbornness. Even though I am dressed in a shirt and underwear, I suddenly feel self-conscious. With my other prep team, I can lounge around all day naked in front of them, but something isn't right about today or the new people in my room.

I clear my throat and nod to the other room, "I'm sorry, if you wouldn't mind?"

Again, Claudia rolls her eyes and then shoos the others out of the room so I can make the trip to the bathroom in privacy. My wake-up call was unsettling and I need a moment to gather myself.

Once inside, I lock the door and pace the room, my bare feet padding along the heated tile. I still can't get over the fact I slept through their entire set up, let alone the entire night. The Games are in a few days and I fear I'm losing it. I've always been a light sleeper, even more so since last year. I stop for a moment, rub my eyes and examine the small flakes of sand on my fingertips.

"Out like a light," I sigh and disrobe for my shower, which has been programmed with exotic oils and perfumes mixed with the hot water. Even though I showered the night before, I need time to think. The sweet scents mixed with steam always helped me relax too.

Thirty-six hours is all I have left, and they want me to get dressed up and go to a party. Enough of the dog and pony show already, I just want to sleep until the hovercraft takes me away.

There is a pounding at the bathroom door. Through the static hiss of the water, I can barely make out the annoyed and desperate cries of my prep team for me to hurry up. I watch the water slowly spiral down the drain and the steam lift the aroma of jasmine and almond to my nose.

Last year, nothing really was expected of me. Now, I am expected to die, take down the Capitol or both. They expect a girl, who last night, got off on the idea of being choked by her pretend fiance the same way when she was raped, to be the face of the rebellion? A girl who suffers from nightmares. A girl who killed four careers, but can't stand up to one Peacekeeper. A useless seventeen-year-old girl who just started her period four weeks ago, is expected to be their hero.

At least I will smell pretty when the countdown starts.

-oOo-

"Absolutely gorgeous!"

"Wonderful!"

"It will do I guess."

Two hours later, my makeup is easily much heavier than what I wore for the opening ceremonies. My hair is piled on top of my head and is held in place with a diamond tiara. Not only are the shoes uncomfortable, the strapless gown that pools to the floor is oddly fitting - too tight in areas and much too loose in others. The dark green sequined gown has a slit that runs clear up to my waist, revealing my entire right leg.

Cinna would have never put me in something like this, especially in four-inch heels. My reflection is nothing like the proud girl I saw last night; the girl I see looks five years older and in no way resembles the Victor my sponsors saw in my last interview with Caesar.

"This isn't one of Cinna's. Why didn't he dress me for tonight?" I ask, tugging at the bust of my gown. They very well could have mentioned it before, but ten minutes into the prep, I tuned out their ramblings. I also didn't feel very talkative after they decided to wax everything. That involved a half-hour-long fight – but when Claudia pulled me aside and slid her hand around the back of my neck, talking softly and sternly about my duties and following the rules, I reluctantly returned to my place on the prep table and remained silent.

Everything about this prep feels wrong, and now I'm starting to worry about Cinna and even my idiot team.

For the first time, Claudia looks uneasy at my mention of Cinna. Her eyes drop and she clasps her hands behind her back. "Tonight's event is a slightly different affair. All arrangements are by request of the sponsors. Cinna's services were requested elsewhere this evening."

"So, one of the sponsors wanted me in this?" I ask, looking down at my painted toes peaking out from the cheap green material.

"Yes. Mrs. Papaver designed this especially for you. She is quite a fan of the Games and Cinna's work. Let's say he inspired her to try her hand at fashion," Claudia says with a politely forced smile.

I look back at the mirror and before I can make any sound of complaint, Claudia continues, "Mrs. Papaver is one of the top sponsors - Your primary sponsor. So I would expect you to be cordial about it. President Snow also expects you to cooperate with this evening's events."

Wonderful: more rules, more cooperation and more expectations. Figures. It's Peeta that needs to "wow" the sponsors this time. They shouldn't waste their money on me.

Claudia chews on a black thumbnail and ponders for a moment on how to make this outfit a little less atrocious. Her hand drops back to her side with a sigh, "Well, we did what we could. If we had an earlier start... Oh well, we had best be on our way."

-oOo-

"Shut up. I swear I'll shove this shoe down your throat." I hiss at Peeta as I enter the elevator. He keeps a straight face, but he's holding his breath.

Fortunately for him, Portia dressed him tonight, and his beautifully, perfectly tailored silver suit keeps me from kicking him in the leg for laughing at me. Diamonds are carefully placed on his cuff links and collar to coincide with tonight's theme - Diamonds and gold for the 75th anniversary of the games.

"No really, you look lovely. It's a pretty green," Peeta says, pressing his lips together.

Watching the muscles in his jaw quiver, I quickly drop my gaze to his hands. There's no way he could know what I imagined him doing with those hands, yet I suddenly feel like he knows everything.

"You're lucky Portia's services weren't requested elsewhere, too." I cross my arms and lean against the glass, turning my eyes to the numbers counting down to the lobby. The tiny piece of fabric they insisted on calling underwear is riding on some very raw skin.

"So this isn't one of Cinna's new amazing creations that will take Panem by storm?" His hand sweeps at my ensemble. He steps closer and places a hand at my hip. "It even has pockets."

My chest tightens and I hold my breath. This elevator is starting to feel a lot smaller than before.

I clear my throat and keep my eyes on the numbers, willing the decent to go faster. "Mrs. Papaver, our sponsor, wanted to try her hand at fashion I guess. You had better do what you do best and tell her something nice."

"What's that?"

"How you talk to people. Everything you say is the right thing to say, even if it is a lie," I say, finally looking at him and I see his smirk fade.

"Lies?" Peeta almost sounds hurt by my statement.

"Don't get me wrong," I continue, "I mean, it's gotten us this far in the first place, right? The interviews, our relationship, the Victory Tour, everything. Everything you say has such confidence, you could tell Effie her hair looks natural or tell Snow his breath doesn't stink, and they would believe it."

"My lies have gotten us this far?" he repeats my words slowly with a knitted brow.

I turn back to watch the numbers. A few more seconds and we will be at the lobby where I am eager for the distraction from my poorly placed words.

"Never mind," I breathe, "I shouldn't have said anything."

Peeta clears his throat and steps directly in front of me, blocking my view of the door. "It's the truth that has gotten us this far. It's you, Katniss, that has gotten us this far." My stomach flutters again at the low gruff of his voice, flashing a memory from last night of his breath on my neck, and the sound of my name on his lips.

His words aren't in a defensive tone, which I find surprising. He pauses, waiting for me to look at him.

"Katniss, nothing I have said is a lie, it's all real. We've gotten this far because of you. You've taken the lead every time, and you fight, Katniss. You fight for everything that is good in this world." Peeta lifts his hand to his hair to run his fingers through it, but remembers its held in place by styling gel.

Dropping his hand, he takes a breath and continues, no longer looking at me. "I guess you're right. All I am good for are my words. If you hadn't found me..." His mouth opens and closes. His eyes find mine again. "Katniss. I've never lied. I don't have the kind of skills you do."

My words are caught in my throat as the elevator doors chime a happy little tune and open to the lobby.

We are quickly ushered down a grand hallway, which leads to an impressive set of oak doors with a beautifully grotesque carving of the first rebellion and the Capitol's victory. At the bottom, bodies form the foundation of a mountain, which citizens of Panem climb to the top where they find sanctuary under the Capitol flag. A reminder of how many lives were lost and how many were "saved."

When the doors are pulled open, the Capitol proves once again anything surrounding the Games shall be spared no expense. The event at Snow's mansion was a quaint affair compared to what is offered for us tonight.

It looks as if everyone who had contributed funds to the Games or a Tribute is in attendance. Silver and gold Capitolites already in the throws of mingling fill the room, making me feel incredibly self-conscious in my green ensemble. How can I blend in with this eyesore?

Projections bring the walls to life with images of landscapes from each district and blends into a portrait of each Victor at the exact moment of their achievement. Some show desperation, shock or even proud triumph smeared across their faces along with blood and grime. The photos then turn into our current Quell roster; faces although clean, still show the same resentment, fear and pride.

Images of Peeta and me appear more frequently with added graphics that make our crowning moment seem even more surreal than when it actually happened. A few posed shots of us during our engagement are showcased as well and we take that as our cue to link arms and smile.

We make our rounds to officially introduce ourselves to the money that can very well save our lives.

Peeta proves that his research is more valuable than just his words. Effie must have given him the entire guest list with an infographic for who's who when she found out she wouldn't be able to attend. Peeta's stack of notes of who could kill him paled in comparison to the mountain of who could save him.

He quietly whispers to me the names of politicians, entrepreneurs, inventors, Gamemakers, their wives and mistresses. I am happy to have him lead me through the sea of diamonds instead of a golden wig tugging at me in every direction.

"Why isn't Haymitch here?" I whisper over my champagne glass once we've made it to an hors d'oeuvres table.

Peeta shakes his head after taking a bite of a biscuit. He chews through his answer matter-of-factly, "Victors that are competing this year only. No mentors, no escorts. A final meet and greet, you could say."

"A last chance to squeeze some luck out of these sponsors, huh?" I mutter while looking around the room.

We meet most of the sponsors in the first hour. I am sure Peeta's shoulder is sporting a welt under his crisp jacket from all the claps on his back; praises not only of his victory but how he landed me as a prize as well. Each time he smiles and nods while I play up the embarrassed and cute act. We take that as another cue to give another kiss.

I should have stretched first to get ready for all of this acting. Not only were Peeta and I still playing the lovers, I had to sell this hideous gown, which everyone absolutely loved. Each time I dropped Mrs. Papaver's name, I could see a spark of jealousy flash in the eyes of the wives and mistresses. Thank goodness I won't be around to see what the fashion trends are next year after the sudden spark of "talent" these rich, bored women will suddenly acquire.

A bell chimes and we take our seats for dinner and speeches. Twelve large tables arc in front of the stage, eerily reminiscent of our platforms in the arena. Crystal bowls as centerpieces add to the Games theme. For each table, a different element has been arranged inside of the bowl representing each District: Jewels for 1, sand and seashells for 4, pine cones and twigs for 7 and chunks of coal for 12. Nestled on top of each, burns two small candles. Cinna's fire themes must still be popular because twelve more candles surround each bowl.

Caesar Flickermann takes the stage and gives a brief, yet somewhat heartfelt speech about some of the notable Victor's from the past. He spoke of Taro Lockyere, winner of the first Hunger Games and how he set the standard of mentorship. Flint Cardoux and his zero kill victory was notable but not as such when it came to Relic Marston's victory who scored one less kill than Taro with eleven. Five of those were with his bare hands, Caesar said with clenched teeth, shaking his fists in front of him.

His fierce grin turned to a soft smile when he pointed to Mags and spoke of how she caught the attention of a nation as she sat on those rocks by the river, nude. She was almost the perfect picture of a majestic mythical creature from before the Dark Days - And so began the sponsorship.

Those who were so touched by a tribute's actions and demeanor felt they should lend a helping hand. Those with the means not to just support the tribute but Panem in funding the tradition of the contract between country and its people, still in its infancy.

Caeser brings Finnick to the stage who brings along cheers and whistles of the sponsors.

Finnick clears his throat and taps the microphone. When it gives a satisfying pop, he shoots his winning smile at the crowd. Mrs. Papaver and her husband sigh and lean forward, reflecting the other sponsors' star struck reaction to the flash of white.

"Good evening. We are gathered here tonight, as a thank you to those who, without your generous support and patriotism, aided us in our journey to become Victors."

He pauses for the immanent applause, and when it settles, a genuine smile lingers on his lips. "My dear mentor, and now, District partner, Mags." Finnick places a hand on his chest and extends the other to his table.

"Maggie Somerley from District 4. Victor of the 12th Hunger Games. And one of the most beautiful Victors I might add." Mags blushes and waves Finnick away. She bashfully covers her face when her image lights up the screen behind Finnick. A seventeen-year-old girl, whose only resemblance to the woman who sits at the table with seashells and sand, were her eyes.

Radiant skin glowing against the rocks, long legs tucked under her as she calmly ties an intricate, invisible knot with threads of hair. She was slender, but not weak. Wide shoulders showed a swimmer's physique and not an inch of her body untouched by the sun.

I can see how those who saw that girl wanted to contribute somehow to her victory. Thankfully, she was skilled enough on her own. Mags lured the other tributes along the rocks where she had set traps for them. Once the cannon sounded, she'd push the bodies in to the river where the current, which turned into rapids, removed the bodies.

Her final kill was not as easy: a boy from 2 traversed the rocks with ease and followed her into the water. Unbeknownst to him, he fell into her greatest trap; a carefully crafted net, submerged a few meters downstream, would bury the boy under water.

"The 13th Games were the first time sponsors were able to contribute for gifts of food and supplies. Soon, weapons were added to the catalog. Woof was the first to receive such a gift in the 16th Games," Finnick continued. More images of past games show tributes looking to the sky for their silver parachute and devouring their food gifts or admiring their new weapons.

"Woof. What weapon did you receive? Woof?" Finnick called to table 8. Cecelia elbows him and repeats Finnick's question. Woof swells with pride once he understands and shouts his answer. "A pickax!"

"A yes, a pickax in the clever hands of our dear Woof. He also took out three tributes with one boulder!" Finnick tries to manage an entertaining tone, feeding the sponsors with flair.

The Victors bowed their heads at the thought of the many lives that were so brutally destroyed. But this event was for the sponsors, and the more they are reminded of the blood and glory, the looser their wallets should be by Game time.

"Hey Finnick!" District 7's table clatters. "Aren't you gonna ask me what lovely gift I received from our dear sponsors? Since Blight here made such an impression mentoring."

Finnick clears his throat and poses with his hands clasped behind his back. He knows the story quite well and anticipates Johanna's outburst.

"Joanna Mason, everyone. Victor of the 71st Hunger Games."

"No thanks to you guys," she chimes in, cutting applause short.

She was right. One other person besides her district partner shared their table and he was Blight's main sponsor who paid for medicine when his allies betrayed him and left him to choke on his severed tongue.

"Johanna reminds us that although our lovely Capitol is the heart of this great nation, strength and perseverance are what moves us and makes us proud of such Districts like 7."

Johanna snorts and sits back down when Finnick gives a small, soft grin. It seems he is the only one who can keep her in line.

Sitting at our table are Mr. and Mrs. Papaver and another couple a few years younger, not yet married but displaying a much more convincing attraction to each other than Peeta and I.

Last year's Games were their first time sponsoring. Acantha and Garret were the ones who donated the most money, which paid for the medicine and sleep serum.

They are the ones we owe our lives to, and of course Haymitch for convincing them to sponsor us.

Acantha, about twenty-four, has unnaturally red hair, cascading down to the middle of her backless gown. Red eyes flash in my direction. They stand out in the stark contrast to her black gown, encrusted with black jewels. Her slender fingers are tipped with the same fiery red as her hair. Her mouth, a beacon against her white skin draws the most attention.

Her partner, Garret, almost the exact opposite; short cropped bleached white hair, plays against his tanned skin. His suit all white save for the red trim and a red pocket square. His hands, soft and well manicured are the simplest feature he owns, and they never stop touching Acantha.

A pure white smile matches his white eyes, framed with black eyebrows; his ocular fashion statement is almost haunting.

"And most recently, we had our most historical Games with not one, but two Victors," Finnick announces as our table lights up and all eyes are on us. I should be used to the attention by now but among the other tributes it feels as if this is another play by the Gamemakers to single us out – giving the others another reason on their long list to kill us first.

"Love being their strongest weapon and tool of survival. But like most of us here, they couldn't have done it without sponsors. Peeta. Katniss. Introduce us to your sponsors."

A round of applause gives me a moment to ask Peeta to speak. All he needed was for me to squeeze his hand. He pats my leg and stands up, clearing his throat; he addresses the room with squinting eyes against the harsh spot light.

"Good evening everyone. As Finnick mentioned, we couldn't have won without Mr. and Mrs. Papaver and especially Garret Winters and Acantha Miller who helped Katniss in her most dyer time of need, donating enough for the burn cream after the fire storm."

All eyes shifted from Peeta to me. I give my best smile and lean over to take Acantha's hand and say thanks. Before I can pull away, her thumb caresses the back of my hand and the fiery red eyes become piercing. I feel myself blush and gently bring my hand back to my lap.

Peeta turns to the couple that was again showing a dramatic display of affection for each other, looking like proud parents as Peeta thanked them for their gifts.

He continues about our time in the cave, "And although I do greatly appreciate the medicine you funded, I can't say I much liked the sleep serum." The crowd erupts in laughter, eating up every bit of Peeta's speech.

"But seriously, to our wonderful sponsors, we couldn't have done it without you. I hope one of us can extend our gratitude again the next time we meet."

Oh yes, definite crying at a few tables now.

Peeta sits down with the applause and he leans over to give me a kiss, which I play up a little more than usual, riding on the emotions of the crowd. Maybe this dinner is was a good idea. We are now gaining more attention for our District than it ever had in twenty years.

I look around the room and see Chaff and Seeder's table and realize there is still one more mention of gratitude to give. I stand up and the crowd immediately goes quiet.

"I wanted to thank Chaff and Seeder from District 11 for sharing with me one of their sponsored gifts meant for Rue."

Everyone looks around, trying to figure out who had exactly put up the money for the bread I received.

"I know it was the people of 11 that came together and managed enough for that bread, and for you, as mentors to send it my way-"

A loud tap pops over the speakers as the microphone comes to life again. Caesar interrupts with a classic chuckle, bringing the attention back to the stage. Peeta tugs on my wrist and sits me back down.

"Sponsor's party, remember?" Peeta whispers in my ear. "I'm sure all of 11 knows how thankful you are. Or did you forget our visit during the tour?"

I open my mouth and close it in embarrassment. I feel as if no matter how many times I give my thanks to 11, I will forever be in debt. I know I didn't want an alliance with anyone, but hopefully this will improve my chances with 11 and they will either spare me again, like Thresh, or kill me as quickly as possible.

Caesar makes the announcement of dessert and drinks, a cue for more mingling.

Peeta and I find our way in a small circle with Finnick and Johanna and I see I am not the only one uncomfortable in the supplied fashion of the night.

"For fuck's sake, another tree themed piece of shit. I swear, I'm starting to look forward to the arena," Johanna tugs at the stiff brown material around her neck with one hand while a neon blue drink sits in the other.

"My gown has pockets," I say and shove both hands in the front of my dress, wiggling my fingers to show off the new trend. "We're almost done for tonight right?"

Finnick clears his throat and finds sudden interest in a loose thread on the front of his jacket. Johanna coughs as she chokes on a laugh.

"You can't be serious? Finnick, they don't know?" Johanna takes a seat at the nearest table and puts her feet up on an adjacent chair. "Not for you guys, it's not."

I look to Peeta and he just gives a shrug.

"Haymitch or Effie didn't give you a heads up?" Finnick asks. "Oh boy."

"A couple of 'thank you's' and handshakes ain't gonna compensate those sponsors for their contributions. Lucky for me, I only have to thank myself," Johanna chuckles again, waving her fingers as she finishes her drink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for hanging in there! The next chapter will be totally worth it. I swear. As always, comments are very much appreciated!


	10. Command

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Katniss and Peeta perform their duties as Victors.

Peeta and I are separated and taken to smaller suites where a new set of stylists transform us for the second half of the evening. I am grateful to have my hair down again in its usual braid and I am dressed in simpler clothes. Although, I do find it odd how simple my attire is: soft, silky, dark olive green pants and a black tank top. My makeup is still heavier than I would like.

I ask my stylists what is expected of me, but they work in complete silence. The only thing that is explained to me is that Acantha and Garret requested a private audience with Peeta and me. The lack of undergarments and specially placed perfume aids my suspicions of tonight's activities.

Once I am prepared, I am sent down the hallway, following a soft trail of red light.

"It's just an act. Smile, breathe, play along and you'll be back to your room before you know it," Finnick whispered to me before an usher placed his hand on my back, directing me to the small suite.

I can barely breathe as I walk down the hallway. The thought of smiling makes me sick. The thought of being used again makes me sick. But this is for Peeta.

My bare feet on cold stone bring me closer to two Avoxes draped in a sheer fabric standing in front of a large door. Gilded from head to toe, they resembled statues. Even their eyes were coated in the precious metal. Although blind, one Avox knows I approach and kneels with an offering of a gold quiver. I see that it is purely decorative as the plastic arrows sheathed inside are fixed in place. It would be terribly stupid to allow a Victor to have any kind of weapons in this intimate setting.

I sling the quiver onto my back like an old habit, however I feel uncomfortable with the odd size and weight of it; it is too light and provides no sense of safety and it does not quell my shaking.

Once situated with my costume, the second Avox opens the door to a much larger suite. The room is illuminated with floating red lights matching the pathway I had to follow. Holograms of fire lick the bottom of the walls, filling me with fear. Even though the room is cool and smells of cinnamon, I anticipate the smoke and pain.

I come to a small table with a single flute of champagne and a small card that reads Some Bubbles to Ease Your Troubles. Although I am tempted, I refuse the offering. The morphling and Haymitch's white liquor were lessons enough. Next to the fine crystal glass, I see a small water ring left on the marble.

Around the corner is another room with a different kind of light; soft blue flames encompass this side of the suite. Here, my bare feet find thick, fluffy white carpet.. On the far wall, is a large canopy bed, covered in red and white silks and even more pillows in different shapes and sizes. I swallow hard at the anticipation of laying on that bed, and a new, deeper shiver runs through me and lands deep in my stomach.

In the center of the room, Acantha and Garret are seated next to each other on a plump gold couch, which almost engulfs them in soft black silk pillows. Acantha sees me first over her lover's head, which is nestled in her bosom.

"Katniss," she hisses. "Darling, you've made it. Honey, look, she's here!" she exclaims to Garret as she pushes his head away and turns him towards me. Garret has shed his dinner jacket and wears a simple white button up shirt with his sleeves rolled up, revealing an intricate pattern of golden tattoos that travel down his arms and lick his wrists. Acantha's main staple to her attire is a red corset, pulled so tight her breasts nearly touch her chin.

"Oh, she looks wonderful! Absolutely perfect. Katniss, go ahead and have a seat next to Peeta," Garret sweeps his hand across the room to an arrangement of round grey pillows which in this light look like boulders. Sitting on the floor is Peeta, wearing cargo pants and t-shirt, and on his left leg a red silk scarf is tied just above his knee.

Behind him, a silent projection of our game footage plays on the walls, specifically of our time in the cave. I swallow hard and try to keep calm. This couple is obviously obsessed - and because of our attire, I doubt their hobby will remain innocent.

"This was our favorite scene in the whole games!" Acantha says cheerfully as she plucks an arrow off the small end table. She points it at us like a conductor and says, "Go ahead Katniss, you remember the words don't you?" Acantha says as she sits back and presses the tip of the arrow against her middle finger, spinning the shaft slowly with her other hand, eagerly awaiting the play to start. She's biting her lip in anticipation.

I find my seat next to Peeta. "Hey, are you okay? What is all this?" I keep my voice low, not ready to begin the scene. What in the hell does this couple want us to do, exactly? Once Finnick explained what had been expected of him in the past, I figured tonight would be pretty cut and dry. I glance back to the bed in wonder.

Peeta nods and leans back against the pillows and folds his hands over his belly. "This is what they requested. It's fine, Katniss. It'll be like a school play," he whispers with a smirk and then clears his throat and starts with a loud voice, "Katniss, thanks for finding me."

I know the words; I've seen it a million times. The interviews about this moment and the constant recaps make it impossible to forget. Even without the replays, I doubt I would ever forget. I was ashamed of what I did, but it was for Peeta's own good. It was the only way to get the help we needed. Obviously it worked – because thanks to Acantha and Garret, we're alive and sitting in front of them tonight.

Peeta's willingness to play along makes me wonder if he knows what is going to happen. Has Haymitch briefed him? I certainly didn't get a heads up. Did Peeta get the same prep I did? Which leads me to wonder if he too isn't wearing any underwear. I bite my lip at the thought.

"You would have found me if you could," I recite my lines, placing a shaky hand on his forehead. This reminds me of how close he was to dying in that cave, and how scared I was. I won't let this happen again.

"Yes. Look, if I don't make it back —" He says his part with the same painful look on his face from before. I shush him and brush his hair back. This is incredibly awkward. It smells too sweet in here, the floor is too soft, and the conditions are just too pure. In the Games we knew about the cameras, but they were something we could shrug off and ignore. Having real people only feet away, mouthing the words with you demolishes any meaning this moment has left.

Peeta continues, "But just in case I don't —" I shush him again and place my fingers to his lips.

Peeta clears his throat and looks at our audience. Garret is leaning back in his seat, legs comfortably splayed in front of him, his right hand high on Acantha's thigh. She's biting the shaft of the arrow now, tapping her feet in anticipation.

I wait for Peeta's next line. He hesitates, and swallows hard, "But I —" With that I lean down and kiss him, quickly and simply, much like a school play.

"You're not going to die. I forbid it. All right?" I say my final line quickly and plainly and I hear a squeal and a clap. Peeta grins at me and whispers, "This may be easier than we thought." It comforts me to see him so calm – he's great in awkward situations and I know I am safe with him.

But then Garret clears his throat, loudly.

"It's not quite right, is it dear?" He asks and keeps his gaze on us. Acantha, still wrapped up in the moment, is too excited to be extraordinarily critical of our performance. "You're our favorites you know. We like you two, a lot," Garret continues, "We paid for you two, a lot. Acantha even has your arrow that saved Peeta and killed Cato; she won't put it down. That's how much she adores you."

The idea of coveting such an artifact sickens me. What other souvenirs were out there? Knives? Spears? Bricks? Who has a bouquet of Rue's flowers?

"Don't be shy, show us how much you adore each other," Garret says, his fingers ripple over Acantha's fishnet stockings as he moves his hand further up her short black skirt. Peeta and I look at each other, unsure of how far all of this is going. "Again!" Garret calls out like a director, making us flinch and Acantha gasp pleasantly, "Let's try that again, shall we?"

Peeta wiggles in his place and gets situated for Take Two and begins again, "Yes. Look, if I don't make it back —" I repeat my movements and brush his hair back off of his forehead.

"Don't talk like that."

"I know. But just in case I don't —"

"No, Peeta, I don't even want to discuss it," I move my fingers to his lips, shushing him.

Without hesitation this time, when he gives me the cue and I lean down and kiss him. I hold it longer, like the time we fell in the snow in front of our houses. Whatever the size of the audience, I have to do my best. My hand sweeps down onto his chest, my fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt. Peeta's hands come unclasped from their place on his belly and he places them on my waist. Peeta must know Garret wants a show because he parts my lips with his tongue and I too start to play along.

A familiar chime sounds and we look up. Acantha is prancing towards us dangling a silver parachute in front of her.

"Congratulations! It's a parachute! What could it be?" She sings while swaying it back and forth as she lowers it in front of us. Once it is settled on the floor, she prances back to her seat, giddy for the next act. Peeta sits back as I open the parachute. Sure enough it is hot broth.

Moving on, I reach out to touch his forehead again, miming the character of a caring partner, and he catches my hand and presses it against his lips. I remember this bit; I even thought it was cute.

"No more kisses for you until you've eaten," I say sternly. Peeta is propped up and ready for the broth that has been provided us. He drinks from the silver can obediently.

I look up at the projected images of our scene in the cave – the Peeta on the screen is bloodied, filthy and emaciated. I look back at the clean round cheeks and manicured nails of the boy lying next to me, who sips at the broth slowly, and not with feral gulps as before.

"You too, Katniss," Garret directs, he had gotten up and moved to the table across the room behind the couch that has a magnificent spread of food and drinks. He picks some grapes and tarts for himself as well as a fresh glass of liquor. I take the broth from Peeta and take a sip, keeping my eyes on Garret as he strolls back to his seat; all the while he never takes his eyes off me.

"That's it, you need your strength too. Bottoms-up," Acantha sings, gesturing upwards with her arrow.

It was a simple broth, a little minty, but good. I didn't mind finishing its contents considering I hadn't eaten much at the Sponsor's Ball dinner. I set the can aside and look back to Peeta and shrug as if saying, 'what now?' There were a lot of moments in that cave, a lot of boring, stupid moments too. If they demand I tell the story about that stupid goat again, I'm shoving this parachute down their throats.

"Katniss," Acantha says, pointing her arrow at me again. "How is Peeta's leg doing?" she asks, leaning forward to get a better look. It's gone you stupid bitch. I turn to Peeta, knowing this is starting to get out of hand. But what can we do? They saved us before, and they might save us again. It's one sick game after another and I'm getting tired of it. Again, I have no choice.

I set down the small metal can that held the broth and lean over Peeta's left leg where the red scarf is tied. I put my hands to his leg and act out the scene as I try to hold back real tears while I slowly undo the red handkerchief tied around his thigh. Peeta looks away and waits for me to say my line.

"Well, there's more swelling, but the pus is gone," I say again in an unsteady voice. I look up to the glass chandelier, trying to keep my tears from falling. It has twelve little blue flames on it.

Peeta slowly turns back to me and smiles. "I know what blood poisoning is, Katniss. Even if my mother isn't a healer," he starts to giggle. "She's a breaker, not a baker. Ha, hear what I said? A breaker!"

I stop and wonder why the change in script. Peeta's head has rolled back and his eyes are clamped shut as he giggles.

Acantha interrupts the scene, and leans forward in her seat next to Garret. "Darling, I can't see. His pants are in the way. Let me see his leg," Acantha demands.

Peeta begins undoing his belt. "What are you doing?" I say, shocked at his eagerness to go along. He shifts his pants down, eyes closed, leaning back against the soft grey boulder. "Oh, I don't care if you see me," Peeta slurs, "you know, you're kind of squeamish for such a lethal person."

He manages to push his pants down to his ankles exposing every bit of him. Acantha gasps in amazement at the transition of flesh to metal and plastic. "It's so primitive!" She claps.

Shocked, I throw a nearby pillow on Peeta's lap, covering him from the voyeuristic couple. I start to feel flushed and slightly dizzy – my mind races, thinking of a way out of this, thinking of a way to protect Peeta. I know certain things were expected of us, especially after the special prep we endured before arriving in this suite, but Peeta was the last person I thought I would see drop trou so eagerly.

The corners of my vision become sparkly, reminiscent of when I was stung by the tracker jackers. Suddenly my panic ceases, and warmth spreads over my shoulders by delicate hands, urging me to stand up. Calm envelopes me and I can breathe again. The very same hands undo my braid and brush their fingertips through my hair, working from my scalp down and around to the front of my chest, making me shiver.

Sweet breath brushes my ear and neck. "You want to help him, don't you? Make him feel... good?"

The hands slide down my arms to my waist and push my silk bottoms down from my hips, allowing the smooth fabric to pool on the floor around my feet.

"Look at him. He needs you," Acantha purrs in my ear. Peeta remains in his place against the pillows, eyes closed and smiling.

"Are you here to finish me off, sweetheart?" Peeta giggles again as he throws the pillow from his lap and starts to sweep his hands back and forth across his torso, pushing his black t-shirt up, exposing his bare chest.

"What's happening?" I ask, my pulse quickens at the unobstructed view of him again, but it's from giddy excitement, I realize, and not from fear or embarrassment.

I step out from the shimmering green silk around my feet and I tiptoe over Peeta. I ease down slowly onto my knees at his side. He's shiny and amazing.

Johanna's words float in my mind. "I have no regrets about the things I do, because I chose to do them."

Suddenly, I want to touch what he's touching.

My hands follow Peeta's, rubbing his smooth chest and belly, grazing over the soft blonde hair below his belly button. Peeta takes my hands in his and guides them further down to touch him. I want to pull away, but something keeps my hands in his and I accept his offering. The texture of his skin in my palm is not what I imagined – much softer than his belly. My tummy feels fizzy and everything seems brighter.

He grows hard in my grasp. With his hands still on mine, he guides them slowly, up and down, and I become familiar with his shape. I feel calm, sparkly and good; new warmth rolls over me with a flash of need and want.

Mint lingers on my tongue and I shake my head.

"Put it in your mouth," Garret says from his seat on the couch. He sounds far away.

"What? I don't–" I stammer, unsure of what it means.

"Put Peeta's cock in your mouth, girl. Come on, do as you're told." Garret clarifies his instructions which echo in my ears.

Acantha is seated on her knees slightly behind me. She combs her fingers through my hair again, gathering it in her hands. I turn and look at her - she gives a sultry smile in return. I follow her red eyes back to Peeta, he's still grinning and petting his chest all while his cock, as Garret put it, is fully erect. Acantha's hands lightly push me forward and I take Peeta in my mouth.

Peeta flexes and sits up slightly the moment my lips slide around him.

"Oh my god, Katniss, what…" Peeta begins to say, his eyes wide, but he is immediately shushed by Acantha.

"Relax, darling. She's taking care of you. Doesn't that feel. . .better?" Acantha says reassuringly and lays her red tipped fingers on his chest, when she does, Peeta practically melts back into the pillows with a sigh.

I gently feel him with my tongue; he tastes so different than anything I've imagined. Not sour like the palm of your hand, or sweet like a kiss. This discovery adds to my delight and I begin to move, up and down, the same way he made my hands stroke him. I add pressure with my tongue and that produces a moan from Peeta. His sound makes me smile and I do it again a little harder - his hips rise, which pushes himself deeper into my mouth.

Soon, he ventures too far, and I have to break away for a moment to catch my breath. When I sit up, Acantha turns my head to her and she kisses me. Warm and wet and minty. Her red nails press into my cheek as she pushes her tongue between my lips.

"Acantha, dear. Don't be so selfish, eh?" Garret intervenes quietly.

Acantha surprises me, but the action of another woman's full, bright red lips kissing me makes things even shinier, and an aching sensation grows in my core, persuading me to move my right leg over Peeta. I straddle his upper thighs where his shaft sits just inches from my middle. An incredible heat radiates between us.

Urges overwhelm me and I rock forward against him as I lean over to kiss his mouth. When I feel the hardness of him, I whimper against his lips.

The hands that guided me before are now on my naked hips. Sharp red fingertips press into my skin and provoke me to rise up slightly. My own hand takes hold of Peeta and moves him to my entrance, and I ease back down, allowing him to slide inside. It's not a sharp, jarring pain this time. There's a pressure there, but somehow I am so wet, it's a comforting pressure - I hear myself make a sound I've never made before. It surprises me, but I kind of like it.

Bubbles surround Peeta's blonde hair and they pop in different colors as he lets out a moan. Both of his hands move to my hips, intertwining with fingers that already linger there. Both sets tighten against my skin. He pulls my hips forward and I follow his lead, lifting off him and then back down. He's gentle but full of purpose. Both my hands are above his head, gripping the pillows for balance. I am amazed at my heightened senses; I feel his entire length as I roll forward. When I ease myself back, I feel everything inside and it's incredible. He pulls harder and I speed up.

"What's happening?" I whisper. The blue room has shifted to red. I look at the walls, our arena footage is no longer playing, but silhouettes of figures are dancing in the flames, performing different sexual acts; some slow, some with a ravenous pace. Lights flicker and the room becomes hotter. I swallow hard and bear down, quickening my pace even more. Peeta puts a hand behind my neck and pulls me forward and kisses me while his other hand explores my body.

There is so much stimulation that I can't catch my breath. I sit up and lean back, and try to swallow again.

Suddenly, Acantha pulls me back softly, off and away from Peeta. I am still on my knees with Peeta between them as Acantha tilts my head back with her hand at my throat, leaning me against her body. I hear the cheap plastic quiver that I am still wearing crackle and crunch between my back and Acantha's tightly bound breasts. Her other arm wraps around my torso and she drops her hand between my legs. Her slick wet tongue slides along my neck just as her middle finger glides over my center, making me shiver and recoil from her hand. It is too much.

I look back down at Peeta and see Garret now kneeling beside him. Garret is without his white silk shirt, the entirety of his golden tattoos now exposed, vines with thorns digging into his flesh. He leans down and takes Peeta in his mouth. Peeta giggles and moans and slides his hands over his sponsor's scalp.

Garret stops for a moment, after giving Peeta's shaft a long lick, from base to tip, he looks at me and says, "You taste amazing."

Acantha tightens her grip on my throat and continues to rub me with her middle two fingers, dipping inside a little further with each stroke. She then sticks her shiny and wet digits in her mouth and replies to Garret with a satisfied purr, "You're right. Sweet like a sugar cube."

It's too much, it's too hot, and it's too dry. Acantha fingers resume their venture. My panting becomes moans and sounds I have never made before. Soon, her hand is moving too fast. Sparkles are turning into static.

I have to move.

I break Acantha's embrace and get up. "I'm sorry, I have to — I'm thirsty, I need a break. I–"

I run to the table with the food and wine and grab the first glass I see and gulp the contents down. I look back at Acantha and Garret who are wide-eyed and yelling something.

The red lights have transformed the color of everything in the suite. The grapes are now the same color as the cut pineapple. The rainbow of macaroons are all the same hue of grey. The beverages even, from the red wine to the purple tinted spirit that induces vomiting.


	11. Remember the Lie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unsettling realization puts Katniss in a fragile position.

Sunlight peaks through the fibers of my bedsheets, waking me to confront the pounding in my head. A sour taste resides in my mouth and my center suffers from a familiar, dull ache. I roll over to find a more comfortable position which will shield me from the morning light and suddenly realize I'm in my own bed - I have no recollection of how I arrived here and I sit up quickly, throwing the covers aside to investigate both my body and the room for clues.

I am dressed in a plain white silk night gown with plain white cotton panties. My hair is dry and loose over my shoulders - its scent, fresh and clean.

My room remains the same, save for the usual fruit basket that appears mysteriously every day on the center table by the small couches. Today it has bottles of different colored spirits and tonics. I see the silver sheen of a small parachute draped over the side of the basket, reminding me this is meant as a special delivery. The thought that our sponsors weren't just a bad dream sends cold shivers through me.

Something groans and shifts under the covers to my left, giving me a start. Cautiously, I lift the edge of the duvet to investigate, afraid to see red again. Instead, scruffy blond hair lays on the pillow next to mine. I sigh in relief but wince in pain. The sharp pressure behind my eyes makes me feel nauseous. I slip out of bed as quietly as I can and make my way to the bathroom. I stop at the shiny new gift basket to take a closer look - not sure if I should trust any remedy that is tucked inside.

A card, addressed to me, is leaning against the basket. I look to Peeta to make sure he's still asleep and I pick up the card.

_Our Darling Katniss,_

_What a wild night we had! It was everything we wanted and a little more than we expected._   
_Don't worry about that - we've all made that very same mistake!_   
_What a laugh! Good luck in the Games - we'll be watching!_

_~Garret and Acantha_

_P.S. Red is for your Head – Blue makes you feel like new – Green makes it all a dream_.

I take the card with me to the bathroom and tear it into little pieces which I throw into the toilet. What a night indeed - it frightens me that I don't remember how I got to my room, especially bathed and dressed. The last thing I remember is I got sick on the carpet by the table and an Avox rushed me off to the bathroom. Because I downed the entire glass of the stuff, I threw up everything I had, for a long time. Once the dry heaves came, the Avox gave me water - or so I thought. And that was it.

My fear suddenly shifts to Peeta - what happened to him in my absence? I sink down to the floor in disgust and think about how I left him - Garret hovering over Peeta like he was his prey. I was supposed to protect him. Tears fill my eyes and my heart shatters as I put myself back in that room. Is this what I am saving Peeta for? To be used and sold after he wins?

I think further back and see myself over Peeta - and I gasp - it wasn't just the Sponsors that devoured Peeta - I had an equal part in it too. My hand presses to my belly, the dull ache that remains was because of Peeta.

No. Because of me.

I see him laughing and giggling - I remember the minty taste in my mouth and I scramble to the toilet and throw up.

Acantha's red nails flash across my vision. Her red mouth on mine. I heave again at the thought of her hands guiding me so easily.

I wonder what would have happened if it weren't for the broth Peeta and I shared. How else would they force us? The thought makes me think of dusty floors and I taste brass.

Suddenly there is a knock at the bathroom door and a quiet voice on the other side asks me if I am okay. I'm caught off guard and I don't answer as I watch bits of paper spiral with bubbles of vomit. The door opens just enough for Peeta to poke his head inside.

I quickly flush my shame before he can come in.

"I'm not feeling well, just leave me alone," I plead before I turn to look at him. His face is fresh and for once he looks well rested, even though his brow wrinkles in concern. Peeta pushes the door open and gives a single hop while holding onto the door frame. He must have heard me getting sick and he rushed to the bathroom and didn't have time to put on his prosthetic.

"Want me to get you anything? I can call Effie again," Peeta offers. His toes flex against the tile as he keeps his balance on one leg.

"No nothing. I'm still not feeling well from last night."

"From the dinner, you think? Hopefully not a flu."

"No, from the. . ." I can't bring myself to put what happened into words. "You know. . ." Peeta sees me hesitate and I turn away, blinking back new tears.

He hops over to the sink and fills a small glass with water.

"I don't know," he says as he lowers himself onto the floor. He crawls to me carefully across the bathroom floor, the glass bounces and sways in his hand, spilling water over the sides, "what's the matter, Kaniss? Who can I call?" He offers me the glass, which now contains about half of what he put in it. When I don't take the glass of water, he leaves it on the tile within my reach.

Why is he acting like this? Why isn't he puking with a hangover? Why is he acting like nothing happened? I can't hold back the tears anymore, and I start to cry from worry and frustration and damnit this headache hurts. "Don't you remember? Last night? The cave? The soup?"

Peeta's face softens at his realization. "Oh, Katniss, that was a long time ago," he sits back on his bent right knee, leaving his left leg splayed out to the side. "You must have had a bad nightmare brought on by a fever. Here, let me feel your forehead," he leans forward again reaching for my head. I shake my head and push his hand away. With utter confusion, I scoot back against the wall – I can't bear to look at Peeta.

"You don't remember?" I ask, my heart drops. What did they do to him?

"I remember the cave, yeah."

"No, I mean last night?"

"Last night? Katniss, what are you going on about?" Peeta asks again.

I look at him in disbelief. "You were there, Peeta!" I almost shout, "and I . . . something bad happened," I wrap my arms around my knees. I'm not ready to say the words out loud.

"Last night we were up on the roof, silly. You just had a really, really bad dream. Nothing bad happened," he scoots forward and puts a hand on my arm.

 _The roof? What?_ I give my full attention to Peeta.

"When did we go up to the roof?" I demand, wiping snot from my nose with the back of my hand.

"After dinner. It was really nice. Kind of like last year – really quiet, we were alone." Peeta reaches up and tears off some toilet paper and hands it to me.

"No, that's not right," I stammer, blowing my nose in the tissue.

"You must have had something funny last night at dinner. That's why I stick with water – I can't trust these people," Peeta said lightly, half joking, half serious as he picks up the glass meant for me and takes a swig. I look at the tile and see a ring of water left by the glass and remember the small table in the suite.

"But you had champagne last night," I state.

Peeta shakes his head, "Sparkling water, at dinner with our sponsors."

A new wave of emotion crashes over me.

I'm already devastated that I lost track of the last hours of the night. What if I had drank whatever that was in that crystal glass? What if I didn't purge that horrible minty concoction? My stomach churns at the thought. I scramble from my seat and lunge for the toilet to relieve myself of my guilt and stupidity.

Peeta wobbles forward on his knees and takes my hair in his hands and rubs my back, allowing me full concentration on the bowl. How sickening to think that not only do they purchase Victors, but they can easily make them forget. What's worse is they can change memories too. I tremble hard with another set of dry heaves.

"This reminds me," Peeta says sweetly, "of when I was little and my mom was pregnant. I'd rub her back just like this," he chuckles at the memory.

"As long as I don't remind you of Haymitch," I spit into the toilet and flush it, hopefully, for the last time.

"Seriously though," I continue, "that's all we did? After dinner we came back up here?"

Peeta nods and lifts himself up using the bathroom counter. "That's right. Ended the night with a nice mint tea and went to bed."

I take Peeta into my arms and sob into his chest, "You're right, it must have been a really bad dream, because I totally forgot about last night." I might as well go along with his narrative, because what is the point of telling him the truth, especially with less than forty-eight hours left before we have more important things to worry about? I can never imagine Peeta struggling with the same burden I have been carrying since the Reaping. He said he didn't want the Games to change him - if he knew what happened, it would destroy him - because for me, it certainly has.

Tearfully, I help Peeta back to my bed, ignoring the basket of elixirs – I will never trust anything from them again. I'll suffer through this headache today, even if it blinds me.

We tuck ourselves under the heavy white blankets and relish the quiet.

It's a routine we have, Peeta and I. Most mornings, I lay with my back to his chest, his arm over me, and his hand on my heart, waiting for its drumming to placate. I listen to his breathing as he strokes my hair. I first found solace in his arms on the train - reluctant in the beginning, but his hands never strayed from my shoulders. Though his body is hard, there's a softness to his touch and a warmth that engulfs me that I didn't realize I was missing since my mother abandoned her reality.

Peeta is used to my quiet tears. Truthfully, I feel the safest in his arms. No judgement, just patience. This time, my tears aren't from fear brought on by the nightmares or sadness from being torn away from my family, these are from anger. Not the hot frustrated anger I had in the training center or when the Quarter Quell was announced that made me lash out and break everything I could, but a seething, simmering anger. It is an anger I know well; it appears every once and a while, however it comes more frequently, but it's been there since my father died.

Eventually my sobs dwindle and my eyes dry. I whisper so quietly I can't even hear,"I'm so sorry, Peeta," before I drift back to sleep.

Soon, we're roused by my prep team.

.oOo.

Since my first act of defiance against the Capitol, all of Snow's punishments for me have been in the shadows – now it is time for him to make me suffer in the spotlight – turning my bridal gown into my shroud.

"I could have used you last night," I say, just as Cinna lifts the beautiful silk and pearls above my head. He stops and lowers the gown with a sigh.

"Mrs. Papaver's dress was pretty bad, huh?"

I had almost forgotten about that green atrocity. Oh, to go back to that moment where I thought that would be the most embarrassing moment of my life.

"Goodness, it was bad. But not as bad as what I had to wear after that," I look away from Cinna, hoping he gets my hint.

"After the dinner? Like an after party?" Cinna asks and when I answer with silence he clears his throat. "Like. . . a private party?"

All I can do is nod. I don't think I can ever let the words escape from my lips what exactly happened last night. Cinna is my closest confidant and his time in the Capitol makes him privy to more insider information than anyone in my circle - that I can trust, anyway.

"I'm so sorry that happened to you," he turns and lays the gown on the bed. "I was . . . needed elsewhere. I was afraid something like that would happen. I wanted to be there, to at least guide you in some way if that happened. I'm so sorry you were all alone. Are you okay?" he asks as he takes my hands in his.

"I wasn't alone. Peeta was with me. He's okay, but he doesn't remember anything. Is that good? Is that normal? I mean, this hasn't happened before has it?" My voice breaks at the sheer thought and I turn back to Cinna, wide eyed and truly frightened.

"What happened, exactly?" Cinna asks. I purse my lips and I shake my head. Cinna exhales and rephrases his question, "I'm so sorry. I mean, why doesn't Peeta remember? Did they make you eat or drink anything?"

I remember the lone crystal glass in that red room, and equate it to Peeta's condition. "He had champagne, I think. I didn't. But, we both had like a soup during, uhm, well, before things happened."

Cinna nods, "Was it minty?" I swallow hard and say yes. "That's to make things. . . a little easier. But it won't make you forget." I look at him and realize he knows this from experience and my heart aches for him.

"Then why didn't they force me to drink the champagne?"

"That's typically encouraged for those who are especially nervous, but never forced. You must have been very brave." I picture Peeta, perspiration on his forehead, tugging at his collar, clearing his throat every other word - Acantha leading him to his spot among the silk boulders, her bosom conveniently close to his face. Of course he would take the glass from Garett.

"This whole thing is so messed up. I wish someone would have told me. Haymitch was gone. Effie was gone. You. Why wouldn't anyone tell us something like this would ever happen?" I ask, holding back tears, not wanting to ruin Venia's final masterpiece that was my makeup.

"I can't speak for them, but I think it may have been a last minute change in schedule. This year has been so full of surprises that I can't even keep track. I hope that what happened hasn't changed you – I mean, I hope it hasn't extinguished that spark in you. If anything, I hope it made it burn brighter," Cinna squeezes my hands.

"What if we win again? Will this keep happening?" I can only protect Peeta as far as the arena. I hate the thought of Peeta taking the place of Finnick in those peoples' beds.

"I have a feeling things are going to be much different after you win." Cinna says confidently as he kisses my forehead and brings back the wedding dress.

.oOo.

Cinna was right, there had been a lot of last minute changes. Cinna's dress, Peeta's announcement about the _baby_ , the alliance with Finnick and Mags.

Everything has been such a rush, I can't keep dwelling on the past. The mind games, the abuse, the threats – I realize they are all pinned directly on me to slow me down, to mess me up, to completely destroy me.

I hate to have to push it all aside, to pretend it all didn't happen, because I have to focus on what is directly in front of me now, here in the arena. And that's Peeta.

And he's not breathing.

* * *

**_AN:_ ** _Thank you all for stickin' around! Sorry this one was so short. I'll make it up to you in the next chapter ;)  
I'd love to hear from you too with your lovely reviews and comments._


	12. Thirteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PART II

I try to remember how Peeta looked on the hot jungle ground, completely still and not breathing, blood trickling from his ear and how scared I was that something so quick could take him away from me; how in a flash I had failed and everything I went through up to that point was all for nought.

The mixture of a concussion so generously gifted by Johanna and the blast from the Lightning tree, makes it difficult for me to remember some details and events exactly. The days in 13 have been a blurry blip on a screen, but things like Peeta and I kissing on the beach, the arena crumbling, learning about the destruction of 12, the crippling fear of being bombed while underground, and the inferno that consumed the hospital in 8 is deeply etched in my mind.

However, in this moment, while I lay here on the frigid floor of the underground medical facility, those major events don’t flash in my head. Instead, with each pounding heartbeat that feels as if it will shatter my skull, I do see every instance I have failed Peeta. The lies, the diciet, abandoning him not only in that red room, but in the arena as well to be torn away by Snow. Every one of Peeta’s fingers that are clamped around my neck represent every one of those failures.

His weight reminds me of Clove, how light she was when she pinned me down with a knife to my neck. His eyes are like hers too; murderous and wild. Yet his strength is shocking for someone who looks so weak and feels so small. No matter how much I claw and tear at his wrists, or kick my legs, somehow he doesn’t even budge.

There's a ringing in my ears and it is becoming louder the longer he crushes my throat with his bare hands and I no longer hear the curses that spray from his mouth.

We were supposed to save Peeta, not this – this animal, whose teeth snap inches from my nose and claws sink into my skin.

My failures prove too much to face and I welcome the darkness that sweeps over me.

Suddenly, I’m floating on my back in a lake. This is my father’s lake. A purple floatation belt is bound tightly around my waist allowing me complete stillness. I tilt my head back enough to submerge my ears and any sounds I make rumble from my throat and resonate in my head. A few wisps of white streak across the blue sky above me.

Although my wetsuit protects me against the element, my body still shivers in its frigid temperature. My scalp, neck and hands itch in remembrance of the toxins that once were leached from my skin and an instant regret and confusion hits me when I take water into my mouth - a thick copper taste burns in the back of my throat. I sputter and spit and right myself upwards to reassess my surroundings. The metallic taste leads me to believe the water will be red, like the water that was tainted in the beach arena, however it remains the same murky greenish hue it has always been.

I look to the south shore and see Gale and Prim standing barefoot on the muddy bank; fishing poles in hand as they smile and wave.

Eagerly, I start to swim towards them especially since I am tired of the cold water and it’s awful taste. As I stroke and kick, I find that I am swimming in place when the distance between us has not changed. My boots feel as if they are kicking through viscous sludge.

I kick harder and I claw harder, trying to break free of whatever is tethering me. My head pounds as my pulse begins to race and the sky begins to darken. The angel hair clouds transform and grow into huge mutated dark grey masses which multiply into a cluster of angry fists that threaten to fall from the sky. Wind whips across the lake, creating white caps at its surface. More water sloshes into my mouth making my throat burn as if it’s coated in an acidic bile, making it almost impossible for me to breath.

Hovercrafts break through the low menacing clouds in the distance behind Gale and Prim. I try to yell for them, but only manage gargling screams. The two stand unaware among the reeds, and continue to wave. Again and again, I try to scream, only to be muted by the burning water and my throat cramping shut.

As they draw near, the hovercrafts descend, flying mere feet from the ground, leaving a wake of fire behind them with deafening explosions. Everything in their path ignites, including the reeds, the small cabin and of course, Gale and Prim.

The inferno closes in around the lake, flames skip across the water with complete disregard to nature. I take a deep, burning breath and attempt to duck under the surface to avoid the impending firestorm, however, my purple belt forces me back up to the surface. Fierce flames race towards me at an incredible speed, devouring every inch between me and the shore. I tug at my belt, desperately trying to undo the buckle. Before I can take another lung full of air, I am jerked underwater at the last second; a huge orange heat rolls over the top of me as I sink deeper, into even colder depths.

Panic squeezes my throat and lungs - I didn’t get enough air to go this deep - I kick against the force that drags me down with no avail. Heat emerges from between my legs, but the frigid waters quickly sweep the sensation away.

Suddenly, Alma Coin appears from the murky cloud of silk and weeds, her eyes completely white, her straight grey hair that hangs in perfect sheets at her shoulders floats instead in an eerie halo around her face. My scream reaches the surface in three little bubbles as Coin drags me down into the darkness.

For days, I wake kicking away soaked sheets and I gulp as much air as my swollen throat will allow to pass at one time. Eventually the doctors sink me again and again into the depths of morphling and confusion. Each time, a different mutated face devours me - Snow, Plutarch, Thread, Haymitch, Acantha. Sometimes, I see Rue at the bottom of the lake, serine as ever, still holding her flowers.

That’s when I scream for Peeta.

_-'-_

Most of the hallways deep in 13 are sparsely lit to conserve as much energy as possible. Some are completely dark until you activate a motion sensor, even then you only get a few seconds of light as you make your way to the next compartment. Part of me aimlessly wanders while the other keeps mental note of any potential cubby holes for me to escape to when my mind begins to crack. Periodically, I sit in an empty corridor as still as I can to see if I can trick the motion sensors. I found it amusing when a citizen came around the corner and activated the lights and was suddenly startled when they found me tucked against the wall. They, of course, did not find it amusing and just shook their head when I flashed my bracelet that read  _ Mentally Disoriented. _

After that, I figure I should keep moving, at least this way no one can accuse me of mischief.

Because I am not imprinted with a schedule after my release, I wander around the dank underground passageways while I wait for my sister’s hospital shift to end. My mind is exhausted from all the details of Peeta’s hijacking. Not only that, but learning that the list of names of people I know has gotten shorter and has become a longer list of people I knew. I’m not sure if I should put Peeta’s name on that list yet. I fear for Johanna as well. She hasn’t been released from the hospital; her condition, physically, is much worse than Peeta’s.

Finnick and Annie, however, were almost immediately released after the rescue. Since Finnick had never officially left the hospital wing before the rescue mission, he was never assigned a permanent compartment. I approach a soldier who has just dropped off from his group that had been moving a prisoner into a new holding cell. I point to his Communicuff and ask for ‘Odair.’

After about an hour of wandering through the maze of the residential corridors, I find their living quarters. I peer through the little window next to the door and see Finnick and Annie on their bed. Annie is curled up with her head on Finnick’s lap as he gently strokes her hair with his bandaged hands and for once, he doesn’t look so tired and destroyed. He actually has a smile on his face. I imagine her hair feels much nicer against his skin than the rough ropes we used to practice our knot-tying. I rub my thumb over a rough scab on my index finger, remembering the thousands of knots I tied with Finnick in anticipation of our loved ones’ rescue.

I lightly tap on the window to get his attention. His face is mixed with awe and happiness when he sees me through the glass and gestures for me to come in. I enter their small unit as quietly as possibly. The heavy metal door creeks and gives a loud click, but Annie doesn’t stir.

“Hey Katniss,” Finnick whispers, “you’re finally up. Are you feeling okay?”

I half smile and shrug, pointing to my throat still peppered with bruises. I point to Annie.

“She’s fine, but still sedated. She doesn’t take well to new surroundings, but the doctors think by moving her out of a hospital setting and somewhere a little more homey, she’ll respond better. She didn’t like hospitals back home either,” Finnick says with a sigh, keeping his voice low.

I sit across from the couple on the adjacent bed. I watch Annie’s face as she sleeps; so soft and calm although, sporadically she twitches and a frown appears, or her eyebrows knit together briefly. I wonder how frightened I look in my sleep.

At the hospital I managed to speak with a whisper. As long as I keep my sentences short, the pain is minimal this way.

“She’ll get better?” I ask, cutting my words short to avoid unnecessary strain.

Finnick looks down at her red hair, still moving his hand through the long, curly strands. “She hasn’t been better for a long time. She was like this after her Games; real quiet, needing constant attention. Her behavior changes real fast, something can set her off real easy, so I have to watch her.”

“Any violence?”

“She mostly just gets scared or confused. That’s why we moved in here where there aren't a ton of different doctors coming in and out of her room. Plus it’s quieter, no loud machines. And no, she has never hurt anyone when she got upset,” his statement confirms that Annie’s condition isn’t anything like what Peeta is going through.

“I heard about Peeta’s hijacking,” Finnick continues, “I’m so sorry you lost him. You fought so hard for him.”

I quickly redirect the conversation since I am in no way ready to discuss Peeta in that way yet. I need my mind on something else.

“You said she crept up on you,” I stop and swallow, “Before or after her games?” I am curious if he fell for her before the madness, or if this is the only Annie he’s ever known.

“During, actually. I was her mentor, so obviously I had to keep close watch. I knew her before though,” his eyes are fixated on the fire escape plans on the back of the apartment door and suddenly he’s far away. “She tagged along in my group when we were kids and always went swimming with us. She was younger than me, so I only saw her as an annoying little sister who always followed me around, you know? One day, I told her she couldn’t hang out with us anymore, unless she could hold her breath longer than me. She wasn’t able to that day,” a hint of sadness crosses his face. The muscles in his jaw flex. “But you know what? She kept bugging us, challenged me every chance she got, even after my games.”

Finnick swallows hard before he continues, “When the earthquake broke the dam in her arena, I watched her go under, and I held my breath. I sat with my face pressed up against that screen and I held my breath.” His hands still and he looks over to me, “she held her breath longer than I could that time.”

A knot presses into my throat, stressing the already inflamed tissue.

“I hated myself afterwards, because when she came back, she wasn’t the same. I had ruined every chance I had to get to know the real Annie. Now, she’s locked away in there somewhere,” Finnick says, tapping Annie’s head lightly.

I wipe my eyes with my sleeve. “She would’ve died. You saved her,” I croak. I remember being tossed in the waves of our arena when the cornucopia went spinning. It felt like I was under that water forever, at least I had a floatation device. I cringe at the thought of all of the bodies that didn’t return to the surface in Annie’s games, 

I think back to Finnick’s guerilla broadcast and the stories he told after 13 was bombed. How open he was in the details and secrets he disclosed to the citizens of Panem. I am curious about the other stories he didn’t tell.

“Saved her from Thread, too, right?” I didn’t feel details were necessary back in the training center when Finnick first revealed to me that it was him, not Annie, that Thread had claimed. With only a few days away from going back in the arena, those kinds of stories didn’t seem pertinent to our survival in the arena. Just like how I chose to not disclose the events surrounding the Sponsor’s Ball to Peeta. But now, we have time, we have a future down here in 13. And I have reluctantly discovered that talking - out loud - actually does help, especially with those who share the same demons as you.

“Annie couldn’t even perform her Victory Tour. She’d sit there, holding her ears, rocking back and forth. They tried to delay it and give her treatment, but nothing worked. They tried to convince me that by taking her back to the Capitol for treatment would be better, but I knew the sponsors and clients were getting restless.”

Finnick turns his eyes back to the evacuation map and continues with his story.

Not yet a Commander, but someone vying for the rank, stormed into the hospital one day demanding to see the District’s newest Victor. He came with a small squad of Peacekeepers that cleared the halls and nurses stations. The uniforms and rifles alone were enough to make anyone become scarce.

Finnick, however, was not swayed by this display of power and refused to move from Annie’s side in her hospital room. Lieutenant Thread ignored every word and threat and question Finnick had and went straight for Annie, accusing her of lying about her condition and how other Victors had seen much worse. And if she didn’t cooperate, he’d cut off her fucking head too. She tore at her ears, screaming for him to stop all the while refusing to look at the officer’s face.

When Finnick tried to get between them, he was met with a taser under his left armpit, which dropped him instantly. This allowed Thread to close in on Annie. He shook her by the arms and slapped her as he shouted for her to just snap out of it. He called her a lying bitch, a cheat, a whore. The only thing Finnick could do was watch from the cold hospital floor as his partner was being harassed. His muscles continued to spasm from the assault of the electric shock. In addition, a boot or two was delivered against his ribs when he yelled in protest. But when Thread turned Annie over on the gurney and said he’d fix her with his cock, Finnick found his strength and got to his feet.

He crashed into the Peacekeeper, grappling with him for his weapon, but Finnick was not as skilled at close hand-to-hand as his opponent and was given another shock, landing him on the floor once more. This time, Thread followed him to the ground and pinned Finnick down with a hand to his throat. “Give me one reason I shouldn’t fuckin’ kill you right now?”

Finnick was surprised that this man didn’t know how valuable he was back in the Capitol.

“I’m Finnick,” he managed to spit out of his bloodied mouth, “Finnick Odair! I’m a Victor! I can give you what you want. A promotion. Money. A fuckin’ rim job. Whatever you want, just leave her alone!” Finnick offered frantically with every gasp of air. When Thread hesitated, Finnick knew he hit a chord. “Whatever you want, I’ll give it to you,” he said, gritting his teeth at the offer. “I’m pretty popular, you know,” he managed to calm his words after, reaching for the Lieutenant’s codpiece. Finnick’s proposal was answered with another blow to the jaw, however, he was turned over all the same.

All other Peacekeepers in the room took the cue and left, locking the door behind them.

Finnick pleaded sweetly with Thread as his hair was pulled and his face and naked hips were shoved into the tiles. He pleaded for Annie’s sake the entire time, to leave her alone and take him instead. He never ceased with his demands even with the relentless blows to his face and the back of his head. He also bartered with his influence to get Thread promoted, if that’s what he wanted.

“Tell Snow he can’t have her; she’s too far gone,” Finnick had said as he rolled over, cinching up his trousers. “Promise me and I’ll promise you.”

The last thing Thread said to him had been in disgust, that no one would want a fuckin’ retard anyway, and a faggot pretty boy wasn’t much of a trade either. That too was officiated with another swift kick to the ribs before Thread marched out of the room.

Finnick told his story so plainly, so, nonchalantly, that I sat in utter amazement. Was this because it happened so long ago? Or because his encounter was not only an act of defiance but was to protect a loved one, whereas mine was simply a form of punishment?

He leaned forward and kissed Annie’s temple. “The only thing I regret is not securing her safety before this all went down. Plutarch said he’d try, but couldn’t guarantee anything.”

“Same thing about Peeta,” I manage to say, but it’s the lump in my throat that continues to constrict my words, not the bruised larynx. “They all promised.” I wipe more tears from my face.

“At least everyone is home now. Mostly, anyway,” Finnick says, resuming his task of stroking Annie’s hair. His face looks tired again, and Annie starts to stir.

I stand up and I squeeze one of Finnick’s feet that hangs over the edge of the bed. Before I close the door as quietly as I can, I mouth the words, ‘thank you,’ to Finnick.

This fills my thoughts for the next hour as I wander the halls waiting for my sister.


	13. Solace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Katniss learns to let go with the help of Gale and Cressida.

When Peeta screams for me, he screams for me to die, to have me killed, torn apart, ground into the earth, burned, left to rot - exterminated. He screams with seething hatred and disgust that I can no longer take. Everything I have done up to this point has been wrong and I have left a wake of death and destruction behind me. I still struggle with the ghosts from my past here in these dark underground halls, so I ask to go with Gale to District 2, fearful that I myself am starting to believe Peeta's cries and the _Mentally Disoriented_ tag on my bracelet will soon read _Suicidal_ if I don't leave from here soon.

The pure mountain air and drastic change in elevation in 2 cleanses my mind and the chores around the camp keep it occupied. The air is thin and brisk in the changing season, but the sun on my face warms more than just my skin.

Out here, there is no need for an ankle bracelet that tracks my movements. The only strict schedule I find myself abiding to is from the sun and the moon, which I find my sleep schedule occurs more naturally since my body is not commanded by artificial lights. Gale and I are allowed to hunt and gather in the nearby forest during our stay and we fall into our old routine. Another added benefit to hunting with Gale, brings a sense of normalcy which keeps my nightmares at bay.

The way he kisses me might also have something to do with it.

It's our anchor, those sober moments when we sneak deeper into the quiet woods beyond the recommended perimeter. When we can set down our bows and game bags and hold each other, these moments are truly ours that aren't shared all across Panem. And they're real.

Gale and I never spoke about the times I went away. What he saw broadcast, I can imagine was difficult enough, and I know he would never get over what happened off camera. Today, however, he mentions how the most difficult parts were watching Peeta and I portray the 'Star Crossed Lovers.' I assure him of how I never felt right kissing Peeta. I also lie and say nothing ever happened between us.

As we move through the trees, our conversation moves to trading confessions between kisses - he admits for the first time his feelings of jealousy started after seeing Darius vie for my attention. I too have to confess that I found that I didn't like how he would smile at Madge when we made deliveries.

As Gale's mouth moves from bruise to bruise on my neck, and each time his lips touch my skin, I persuade myself that the real, true Peeta that I cared so deeply for is gone forever. The only reminder of him lives in my pocket in the shape of a tiny pearl. Small, compressed, and completely insignificant.

If only for a moment, I find real solace here, in the woods wrapped in Gale's embrace.

The sound that whispers through the trees is calm and familiar, the same kind of familiar as Gale's grey Seam eyes. Out here, there is no evidence that our home has turned to ash, there is no evidence of war, there is no evidence of madness. Although, the closest thing to madness really, is when Gale says that love makes people do all kinds of crazy things.

My body begins to tingle at his words, the same way it feels when his tongue flickers against mine. I shudder when I remember the last time I felt this same hunger, it was with Peeta on the beach of the arena. How I wanted to explore that more with him, unadulterated, untainted, unseen by the Capitol. But those feelings were shattered the moment he tried to kill me.

The Capitol hasn't touched Gale, yet.

Nonetheless, curiosity tugs at me, making that buzzing in my core bloom even larger. All at once I remember the first night back at the Training Center. I was ready for him then in my dream when he laid me down in the green meadow grass. I desperately want to feel that for real this time, because at least now, I have nothing really left to lose. Plus, Commander Thread is nothing but ash floating around 12 for all I know, so there is no need to fear any interruptions from him all the way out here.

Johanna's mantra whispers in my ear; " _You're not always in control, but when you are, why not enjoy it?"_

Maybe I can do this right this time. I just want to disappear from the world for a moment while I still can. I don't want to be anybody right now.

"What kind of crazy things?" I say playfully in response to what he thinks people do all for love. Gale shyly looks up to the trees with a smirk, similar to the way he'd look at Madge, and hesitates to reply.

Instead, something in me takes over and answers for him by pulling him down to the ground, crunching leaves under us. My heavy jacket comforts me from the cool earth, however, my sudden decision of moving forward with Gale has me flushed and excited.

When my hands reach for his belt, he stops me with wide eyes and raised eyebrows. By doing that, he means to revert back to our silent ways of communication, a language we developed over years hunting in the woods together.

I swallow hard and give a curt nod, which brings a smile across his face. I smile too.

As Gale pulls his jacket off I think about how he, too, so desperately needs this and I know better than anyone how short and uncertain our days are - I decide to give everything up, including myself.

He lays his jacket down over the crumbled leaves. I accept his gesture and position myself on his makeshift blanket. Gale waits for me to push my heavy wool pants down around my boots before joining me again. He lies next to me as I continue to work blindly at his belt while his left hand strokes my cheek, and his mouth is on mine.

Once he is free of zippers and elastic, I take him in my hands and I am surprised to find that I don't have to encourage his arousal. Gale swallows hard and moans sweetly against my lips, his tongue flickers against mine. I rub my ankles together and I manage to kick my foot out from one of my boots and eventually from the rest of the bulky fabric as a sign of full commitment to this moment.

The air is crisp as it rustles through the fallen leaves on the ground, swirling them about. My senses seem to explode as Gale moves carefully over me, bracing himself as if he's afraid to crush me under his weight. I hear everything from the nearby creek to the birds singing their lullabies and I can swear I hear his heart pounding over the sound of crunching leaves under his knees.

The moment I feel the cold clasp of his belt against my naked inner thighs, I take Gale's face in my hands and study his features. _It's Gale, your best friend. Your hunting partner. He'd never hurt you. You, Katniss, you want this._ I move my hands to his waistband and push his trousers down even further so I will only feel his skin against mine.

He watches my eyes in wait for my unspoken words as he leans forward, pressing himself against me, letting my hands, now on his shoulders, guide him. I squint my eyes, and shakily inhale through my nose, which makes him quickly halt his movements. Undeterred, he rocks backwards, and pulls my jacket and shirt up to just under my breasts to expose my belly. Be it the nerves or the cold air, I begin to shiver, although only for a moment. He lights a fire with his mouth against my bare skin starting at my ribs down to my hip bone, delicately sliding his tongue along the way. All senses to the elements suddenly disappear and I am only aware of him and myself.

Some spots tickle and some spots he hits make something deep inside vibrate in anticipation. Soon, his tongue reaches my most sensitive place between my legs, surprising me, which makes me grab his hair and my knees tightly press against his ears. He looks up at me and greets my bewildered eyes with a smile. He cocks an eyebrow and pats my thigh before giving it a reassuring rub. I relax my legs and let him proceed.

I stay focused on him, watching his head rock back and forth slowly while my fingers remain tangled in his dark brown hair. His eyes are closed and his face is calm. Sometimes he moves upwards and I see his full tongue lapping against pink flesh under dark curls. I don't want to look away from him, afraid if I close my eyes, I will see white hair instead or picture red nails raking across my hips. When he moves his tongue in tight little circles, I fall back and look up to the brown and orange canopy above us and I pull him in tighter. He sucks lightly at my swollen flesh which makes my leg start to shake. I bite my lip hard so I remain silent, unwilling to repeat the same sounds I made with Peeta.

The deep ache I felt earlier whispers its much needed remedy to satiate its hunger - suddenly I need him, all of him.

I lightly tug on Gale's hair and he understands my silent instructions and comes up wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He drops forward and kisses me, moving too fast for me to protest, and I am surprised at the taste of myself. _You're right, sweet like a sugar cube -_ I remember Acantha's hot breath on my neck as she licked her fingers that had just been inside of me. I pull away, shaking my head and I wipe my mouth. Gale smirks and gives me a moment. He lifts his eyebrows in amusement - thank goodness - his face shifts with a sweet softness. I take my sleeve and wipe his mouth myself, and pull him down for another kiss; this time, only tasting him.

He asks me a second time with his eyes, I lightly squeeze his arms with my thumbs against his biceps and swallow hard. Patiently, he waits for me to nod. Gale smiles and kisses my forehead before he pushes forward, keeping a close watch on every muscle in my face for any clues of discomfort. Although he moves slowly, he doesn't seem to be afraid of hurting me, instead it feels like the time he held my hand as we jumped from an old oak tree that leaned over the cool lake water.

My mouth opens, but I remain mute here in the forest. Unsure if it's because of my sobriety of any Capitol party drug or morphling, I find myself incredibly sensitive to his size yet I am fascinated at how he manages to smoothly make his entrance. Once positioned, he asks if I'm okay with a tiny upward nod of his head. I place a hand at his cheek, which is rough from a day's growth of stubble, and I smile.

And that's it. I feel him rocking over me, I feel the pace of him. Yes, it's a wonderful sensation, the steady action driving deep inside of me, however, something is missing. Where was that intense sparkling feeling that pulsed through me during my last experience? Instead, large, broad movements extinguish the tiny sparks that had flickered across my body with his butterfly soft touch. Sometimes he kisses too hard and it brings me out of the cloud of distraction, snapping me back to the reality of the cold, crunchy ground. His weight snuffs out the buzzing I felt before and my leg no longer trembles against his hip.

There must be more to this. I feel as though I should match his breathing, which feels odd because he's obviously more involved than I am as I lie here on my back. He periodically pulls his face from the crook of my neck to watch my eyes, watch my mouth. I find myself licking my lips since I become parched from the heavy breathing. He takes it as another silent cue to speed up.

Suddenly, a moan rumbles from Gale's throat and his right hand shoots down between us and he quickly lifts his hips to depart from my center. Something warm trickles onto my stomach just below my belly button. His body is rigid above mine for a moment until he rocks slightly and finally exhales, puffing into my hair under my ear. I'm left looking to the leaves above us for answers as he catches his breath. My hand touches the spot on my forehead where I associate confusion and wonder if I should still be in tandem with my partner.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Catnip. Are you okay?" He whispers, breaking his silence and tugs at the hem of his shirt which he then quickly wipes across my belly. He must have seen my furrowed brow as I pondered this situation.

I lie with a nod and stroke his hair for a moment. "Do you want to keep going?" he asks, placing his hand on my upper thigh. I'm unsure of his meaning until he slides his fingers between my legs.

This is what people fight over, what they pay for, and make pacts over? This is all wrong, I think, and I shake my head as I remove Gale's hand. "No, I'm okay."

"Are you sure?" His face is still flushed and now concerned, yet mine shifts into a camera ready friendly smile.

"I'm okay, really. We should get going. We have a big day tomorrow."

The trek back to camp is quiet and odd; I feel empty and numb. I know I'm not in trouble, but I feel as if I did something wrong. I feel like I'm broken. Why is it so easy for others?

It's early but the sun has already set. Gale and I manage to get back into the base before we would have to explain ourselves to the Perimeter Guards. One good thing about the quick onset of nightfall is that we arrive just in time for dinner. The early summer months would have us coming home by bedtime.

A large tent is set in the middle of the wagon wheel layout of the camp. It accommodates the majority of soldiers at one time for meals, briefings and training. Higher ranking officers' quarters are spread out randomly about the hillside. Strategically, too tight of a post can be detrimental if the location were to be found out.

Tonight, there are extra containers stacked outside the mess hall tent and inside the grub line has a few extra options available. When I spot pastries at the end of row, I realize that tomorrow really will be a big day. Troops will be moving no matter what Command decides tomorrow.

Since there is an option other than rice and whatever meat Gale and I happened to bring back, I put my plate out for a scoop of pasta. The rich smell is welcoming and I understand the saying that an army marches on its stomach.

When I reach the end of the dinner line, I opt for an orange instead of one of the flaky little pastries.

Once served, Gale goes on ahead without so much of a nod. I watch him as he finds an Officer's table towards the far end of the hall. It doesn't take long before they are clapping each other on the back and laughing loudly. His actions make me feel even more out of place.

Unlike in 13, we are allowed to leave the mess hall with our food. Rations aren't as stringent, however, huge penalties fall on those who attract rats in their bunks and packs. I prepare to head outside with my tray to get away from the noise of the hungry crew, but I spot Cressida sitting by herself.

"Where are the boys?" I ask as I slide onto the bench seat across from her. She's got a huge mouthful of salad but manages to tell me Castor and Pollux kicked off early. Once Cressida manages to swallow and wipe her mouth, she finishes by saying, "They're getting everything all charged up and ready for tomorrow."

"You already have the schedule?" I hate feeling as if I am the last to know anything. I hate it when they treat me like a little doll that they conveniently prop up in front of the backgrounds of their choosing.

"Not really. We're only ever told to show up and keep an eye on you. You know the drill," Cressida says before taking a drink of her water. Hearing that slightly comforts me by the fact that she too floats along like I do. I'm glad to have her with me. She stays calm and helps keep my thoughts straight kind of like Cinna did before big interviews. She was the one who got me to focus my rage and put into words how we would take Snow down with us if we had to.

The propos and video feeds are our strongest weapon and she knows how to use them. It is bad enough with Haymitch in my ear, I'd hate for him to be the one holding the camera too

"You went out hunting again, I see," Cressida says and leans forward, she reaches her hand across the table to my left ear. I'm somewhat confused by her sudden movement, but I stay still and watch her face, she gives a smirk as she plucks a small dried red leaf from my hair.

"Oh," I give a nervous chuckle, "it's not a glamorous activity."

Her hand returns to my hair, and her eyes are curious as she gently brushes a fallen strand back behind my ear. "Quite the opposite. It looks like those woods are pretty special. You look . . . different."

I feel my face get hot and I turn away, chuckling again, "It must be all of that fresh mountain air. A lot better than being underground, I guess."

Cressida smiles and returns to her dinner. I follow along and pick up my fork, and twirl it in the pasta. "Speaking of 13, how did you make it out there?" I quickly change the subject before taking a bite. My thoughts about what Gale and I just did are still lost and blurry. I'm not sure I even want to admit to myself that it happened. "You didn't make it immediately after the arena fell."

"We hitched a ride from 3 after Beetee was confirmed alive and rehabilitated. A lot of equipment had to be smuggled over per his instructions. Most of it only he knows how to use like the stuff to hack into the Capitol feed, remember?" She talks between bites, a habit I'm sure of having to eat quickly in her busy schedule.

Her journalist mind stays a step ahead and she answers my next question before I can ask. "I originally made it over to 3 to film the Reaping and used my press pass to stay until after the Games."

"How did you get into all of that tech stuff?" I ask, blowing on the hot noodles on my fork. Unlike Cressida, I would very much like to savor my food. The flavor of this meal is a rarity and I know for a fact in a few days, we will be back to bread and rice.

"Back then, everything was so glamorous and shiny. I actually tried to do some modeling," she says with an amused laugh, "but it was so boring in front of the camera. All the excitement was behind the lights, in the dark, so to speak. So much more drama, too. The money, the sex, the back stabbing. Oh, it was better than any episode of _Arena of the Heart_." I never had time nor the desire to watch the program, but advertisements were plastered all over the Capitol, checkered between billboards of Caesar Flickermann and the upcoming Games. The show was obviously some romance judging by the images; two colorful people embracing and one brooding in the background. I had enough drama of my own to think about someone else's.

Cressida takes another big bite of her salad and keeps talking, "I fell in love with it. I learned a lot, not just the tech stuff, but how to deal with people."

"People like me?"

"Yes and no," she says. I can tell she's trying to be polite, but there's more to what she wants to say. "Sure, I learned how to make people feel more comfortable and safe in front of the camera, but I had a lot of other kinds of people around me too. Relationships became different. I knew right away if a partner was bad news or not."

"Saved yourself some heartache, I bet."

"Again, quite the opposite. It broke my heart the moment I figured out they weren't going to last. Because I knew it way before they did, I was the one who broke it off. I hated hurting people."

"Everytime I turn around, I feel like I'm hurting people, letting them down," I say as I look at my pasta and twirl it around my fork.

Cressida glances over to the Officer's table and comments, "He doesn't look so hurt. Not anymore, anyway." She turns back to me not with a cheeky grin meant to tease me but with genuine inquisition.

"Being above ground for once is nice," I give a blanket excuse as plainly as I can, hoping to avoid making it obvious as to why Gale is grinning like a school child, but Cressida shoots me this look she uses during our propos that means I'm either full of shit, or I can do better.

"Okay, yes, because Peeta isn't . . . Peeta. And we've been able to," I clear my throat, "spend more time together."

She sets her chin on her hand and smiles sweetly, "He would follow you to the end of the world. Hell, he already has; he made it to 13, didn't he?"

"Is that really a good thing, though?"

"I wish my last partner followed me to 13."

"What happened?

"Turns out I misread them," her tone shifts and she doesn't look at me, instead her eyes are fixed on the orange on her lunch tray. "I didn't see who they truly were until go-time. We were getting ready to leave 3 and it all just fell apart." Cressida shakes her head and clears her throat.

There are a million ways things can crumble at the last minute, so I don't press any further. As Cressida finishes her salad and her glass of water, I notice she's become anxious to leave so I quickly finish the last few bites on my plate and stand up. This conversation isn't really meant to be had in such a public place, so I suggest we go outside. She agrees and we both take our oranges with us.

We walk in silence for a while, far enough to where the breeze through the tree branches is louder than the rowdy crowd in the mess tent. Soon, Cressida and I find a seat on a bench in front of a quiet medic trailer. A small amber light bulb hangs above the door. In the summertime there would have been a million gnats orbiting the light, but the cold air keeps them away tonight.

Cressida sniffs and rubs her hands together before rubbing her head. The left side of her scalp is typically shaved, however, the upkeep for her hairstyle must not be a priority out here in the mountains because her ivy tattoo is almost hidden under the neglected growth of blonde hair. Her jacket is pulled tight and the high collar conceals the remainder of her tattoo. In this light, I can imagine her as someone not from the Capitol.

I sit forward, with my elbows on my knees as I inspect my desert of rare fruit in my hands. Cressida sits upright and close to me, borrowing whatever warmth I may give.

"Why the ivy?" I ask as I press my thumbnail into the rind of my orange. The citrus aroma reaches my nose instantly and I eagerly tear away the peel. "I mean, it's beautiful. A lot nicer than what I've seen in the Capitol." I think of the golden thorns tearing at Garret's flesh compared to the soft green leaves kissing Cressida's skin.

She pulls out a pocket knife from her belt and takes it to her orange, cutting a long line and then pulling away the peel with the blade pressed against her thumb. "I got it after I learned about the rebellion. Ivy is meant to represent survival. I think about how resilient it is and how much life can thrive unseen in it."

She collects the peeled orange pieces on her lap and sets the bits of rind to her side, whereas I have already consumed more than half of mine.

"It was something I felt I had to do, plus it's a little nod to the underground. Think about it, ivy branches out, touches everything, like a network. It just made sense to me," she says, stretching her hands out in front of her, wiggling her fingers. "When it's not so damned cold, I'll have to show you the rest of it," she says with a smirk. I remember at the lake, she had taken off her heavy uniform shirt in the heat, and enjoyed the sun in her undershirt. The vine crawled from her scalp down to her collar bone where it created a junction, one tendril branching out across her left arm, the others' destinations were a secret.

"You don't have any do you? Ever thought of getting one?" Cressida bounces the topic back to me with a funny grin, closing her knife and tucking it away.

"Oh, no. I have enough scars as it is. No need to add to them."

"I guess you could say a tattoo is like a scar. It definitely tells a story, but they talk about the internal scars, you know? I see them as badges for what we overcame or how we healed from those internal wounds," Cressida sounds poetic as she pulls a flask from the inside pocket of her jacket.

"I don't think I have anything worth telling. Besides, it's not something we do in 12." I don't mean to, but my comment draws the line between us, reminding her she's still Capitol and I am the furthest from it.

"Or. . . you could just get a little daisy tattooed on your butt. They don't all have to mean anything," she says laughing in her flask as she takes a swig. Her comment makes me smile. Cressida finally pops a piece of orange into her mouth and then bumps my arm, offering me a turn. Booze has always been so ugly when Haymitch drinks, but watching how cool and relaxed Cressida is, I almost want to partake.

"No thanks. That stuff never really agreed with me," I say simply, declining her offer.

She shrugs and brings the flask to her mouth a second time, which is immediately followed by another piece of fruit. She chews thoughtfully and pauses for a moment, "I know you've had to survive more than just the Games. Other stuff happened too, right?"

My heart drops at her frank question.

Unsure of what exactly she knows, I remain silent and wait to see what horrors and hardships she intends to ask me about. However, I realize that whatever her inquiry, I am willing to tell her everything. Maybe because she is such an advocate for the truth, or because she has never judged me; I trust her completely.

She picks up on my silence and elaborates, "Finnick mentioned something, but I don't expect him to tell your story for you." I appreciate Finnick for upholding whatever kind of Victor's code we have between us. We have all done wretched things and have been subjected to way worse. No need to share each other's secrets with outsiders. "He only said that you Victors share a lot more than just the crown."

I bump my leg against hers and gesture for the flask. She hands it to me easily. I take a long swig and it has a spicy burn that washes down the back of my throat and floats up through my nose much differently than Haymitch's white liquor. It's a darker taste and it settles deep in my belly, warming me instantly in the evening chill. I look at the flask and I exhale through pursed lips.

"Now the orange," she says pointing to my hand. I find that all I have left are shredded pieces of orange peel residing in my palm. "Oh, here then," she offers me a piece of hers, but my hands are full. She smiles and lifts the wedge up between us, her eyes are on my mouth and awkwardly, I accept her offer. Gently, she places the fruit in my mouth and when I bite down, the juice immediately extinguishes the burn of the liquor yet it mingles with the dark flavor that remains on my tongue to create something new and delicious.

"Wow," is all I can manage as I turn my red face away from her again. I hand back the flask keeping my eyes forward.

"Whiskey," Cressida says, and takes another pull for herself. "A little different around these parts."

One shot of this stuff is enough for me; it already feels as if fifty pounds have been shed from my shoulders. I wait for the taste to disappear from my tongue and take a deep breath. "There was an after party of sorts back before the last Games." Cressida nods in acknowledgement. She knows Finnick's story and duties, so I decide, oddly enough, this will be the easier story to tell.

Since 12 is buried in ash, Thread can stay buried with it.

"It was both you and Peeta, right?" She shoves her flask and hands into her jacket and tucks her mouth into its high collar. She and I look forward into the darkness and watch the sluggish, well-fed soldiers walk back to their tents and barracks. I remain seated with my elbows on my knees, since she has leaned back against the trailer wall, I can no longer see her in my peripheral.

Talking to the darkness was always the easiest.

'They set us up to where you feel indebted to them, our sponsors, and in return they can do anything they want. With the second games coming up, we couldn't risk it to say no. So, they dressed us up, drugged us and fucked us." I tear the orange peel into little pieces and toss them on the ground, eager for another sip of whiskey, but I stand firm on one is enough. I clear my throat and tell her everything. The stupid outfits, the minty broth, the mind haze that lead me to engage in group sex with the very people in a position to save our lives.

I surprise myself at how calm I am able to tell my story, much in the same manner as Finnick back in 13. Cressida lightly rubs my back through the hard parts, but I manage without tears.

"The one thing that I am grateful about that night is that Peeta doesn't remember. He actually thinks we did something else." My eyes go wide and I turn to Cressida.

"Much like how he is now. Do you think that's where they got the idea to hijack him? How easy was it to fix his mind the first time?" Cressida, the journalist, catches on quickly and we sit in silence amazed at the revelation. "I wouldn't doubt it," she continues, "I've seen some pretty fucked up stuff back when I worked in the Capitol. That's how I first found out about the movement, let's see, about four years ago. It was Johanna's year."

"Did they mess with her memory back then, too?" I ask, sitting back and turning towards Cressida.

"No, at least not what I saw. All I can tell you is what I experienced personally. I won't make assumptions or tell you rumors."

"How did you meet Johanna?"

Cressida crosses her legs and bundles up in her jacket some more. Her gaze returns out to the dark path where now only two strolling soldiers can be seen. "She was my first real big exposé for this magazine I started working for." Suddenly, her tone shifts and she lets out a sigh, "If you saw what they did to her." Her eyes are fixed on the tip of her boot. "Johanna wasn't anything like the girl I saw in the arena. They had her so drugged up, and the photos we had to take." Cressida shakes her head and clears her throat.

"I'd done photo shoots plenty of times before," she continues, "but not like this one. I wanted to walk out so bad, but I couldn't." Cressida exhales heavily through her nose, clearly disappointed in herself. "Brand new job, lots of money and a goddamn Victor in front of my camera. The amount of security she had too wasn't very encouraging for anyone for that matter to say otherwise.

"I find out this is usual shit for Victors and I had a pretty good freakout afterwards. Because of that, one of the assistants pulled me aside and told me they were working on a way to stop all of it." She looks back up at me with a small smile, "and now, here we are."

I couldn't imagine what they put Johanna through. Back then, I thought the photo sessions I had to endure were bad enough; long hours, picky prep team, aching feet. I would gladly go back into the arena if I could wear one of Cinna's dresses again, even if it was for a cheesy magazine article.

"I didn't see you after my first Games. Why didn't I have to do anything like that?" I am genuinely curious why I hadn't met her in the Capitol either.

"We had thrown so many wrenches in the scheduling, I guess we never got around to it," she says with a wink. "Also, you had this new kind of image that was different from the other Victors. I figure the Lovers angle is what saved you. Everyone was so interested in the wedding, there wasn't time."

We sit in silence for a moment and I think about all of the events that could have happened if Peeta or I came out as the only Victor because Seneca Crane never changed the rules. Finnick has a brutal past, but I fear that Johanna may have had it worse. I never got the full story about her, and if she ends up like Annie and doesn't recover, I probably never will.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay - I hope this extra long chapter made up for the wait. As always, thank you so much for reading. I'd love to hear from you! @Odesta_irom


	14. Volta

Hot water cascades down my back and steam fills the narrow wooden stall. What tension the whiskey didn't relieve, the shower certainly has. I managed to convince the camp steward for one last shower before they locked up for the night, which means the privacy and full water pressure not shared with fifteen other soldiers also lends itself to my relief. I scrub myself clean of the forest, sticky orange, sweat and sex, however my mind still lingers on those elements.

The way Gale transported me back home with his touch, resurrecting jealousy of the girls he kissed, the crude jokes from the Hob, the smell of the cool earth mixed with a day's work of hiking and hunting, makes me ache for the soot and hunger before my name was first called. The thoughts of the what-ifs and whys revolve in my head so loudly and so frequently I sympathise with the ones who drown the racket with morphling and alcohol.

With every story I hear about the other Victors, I feel as if my own no longer holds any value. I am actually the lucky one in our little circle because what Snow has stolen from me is crumbs compared to my peers - I still have my family, most of my sanity, my strength, a sliver of dignity that hasn't ended up in a magazine somewhere, and I even have my idiot prep team. My vendetta against Snow feels childish.

I feel like an imposter.

How am I their Mockingjay? How am I their leader when someone has to constantly hold my hand and tell me where to go and what to say?

There is a knock and someone clears their throat, more than likely the steward hinting at the fact I have been in here long enough. I reluctantly turn off the hot water and grimace at the cold air that creeps into the stall. To give thanks, I quickly dry off and get dressed so they can finally close up. In doing so, I am left walking to my quarters with wet hair and bare feet in untied boots, making me reminiscent of when Gale and I had to hurry back from the lake; damp skin against dusty clothes, feet not yet dry enough for socks and grass too stiff and spikey to walk on barefoot. Normally we would lay out on the bank in the sun, but that day I had completely forgotten about a doctor's house visit for my mother.

Those times away at the lake are moments I truly relish, especially during the days when my mother was not mentally present. The only thing to do in that quiet house was listen to the clock tic and toc in the small room while I watched her stare into the abyss. When chores and homework were done, Prim was dressed and fed and usually at the neighbors and mother was tucked in her chair, that meant I could slip under the fence and disappear for a while. They were where they wanted to be, why couldn't I?

Like today. Sure, it wasn't the most perfect way to escape, but it happened on my terms, and it was with someone I feel the safest with. I remember what Finnick said about Annie, how he wished he hadn't waited so long for her, how he had missed so much by doing so. My mind spirals into another wave of what-ifs about Gale.

Here, in the rebel camps, the company has had me stay in random locations throughout the week, sometimes moving me in the middle of the night. For this round, I am assigned to a makeshift barrack inside of a large cave. About fifty soldiers line their cots in the straightest formation of three rows they can manage on the rocky floor. Towards the back, munitions and supplies are stacked in large crates.

The cave is lit with dim bulbs strung along the walls, allowing barely enough light for me to find my way to my bunk which is posted near the back and I quickly and quietly change into clean long underwear for bed. Wool socks feel nice against my raw feet and I scrub my hair with a towel to dry it a bit more.

Once I get settled under what looks to be a donated quilt, I stare at the jagged ceiling for a long time, urging my eyelids to get heavier. The damp smell of the rock takes me back to my first games, however the noises throughout the cavern of people rustling in their cots and snoring keeps me from falling completely into the memory, especially when for some people, it becomes apparent their dinner didn't settle well and flatulence is added to the ensemble.

Although I feel like we aren't technically underground, because I can see the way out across the cavern instead of above it, I think of my father and how he oftentimes had to endure close quarters with his fellow miners. He shared stories when the elevator was out of service and it would be two days before he would resurface. As a joke, they had put a dead canary next to the rear end of one of the men who had fallen asleep. They almost caused a cave in with their roaring laughter.

Back then I smiled and laughed so much with him. My mother did too.

I'm not sure how long I had been asleep when the entire cave lights up with a bright flash followed by an enormous explosion. Every occupant is jolted from their slumber, including myself and Gale. He is in the row across from me with his boots and tactical pack neatly tucked under the green canvas cot. Everyone stands, reaching for clothes or rifles, some activate glow sticks and turn on red flash lights. Another blast outside lights us up once again, and instantly, everyone sighs in relief, some laugh and holler even.

It is only lighting. Very close lightning. I am thankful I'm tucked away in the rock, instead of under a flimsy nylon sheet outside. The thunder is loud, but the rain would drive me absolutely mad with its constant hiss and static pounding on the tents. I feel bad for the soldiers who will more than likely spend the next few hours curled up with their pillows pressed over their heads.

The thunder echoes through the cave, shaking everyone to the core. That sound was the last thing I remembered in the arena only a few months ago, save for the pain, of course. I settle down on my knees next to my cot and try to reorient myself. A new location every night becomes confusing and I have to not only remind myself of where I am, but who I am.

"My name is Katniss Everdeen. I am seventeen years old. My home is District 12. I was in the Hunger Games. I escaped. Now I am in District 2 helping overthrow the Capitol." Lightning cracks again, making me jump. "This is not the arena. This is not the lightning tree. This is not the bunker in 13." I almost say that this isn't real - but - it is. I fix the phrase and say it is natural instead. I close my eyes and listen to the rain. This isn't the blood rain, but natural rain. The flashing light is not from bombs, but is totally natural lightning.

Everyone in the mountain barrack has essentially calmed down, some have taken this opportunity to go and use the latrine. However, when I look up to see Gale, he is pacing besides his cot, his boots on but not tied. Judging by the fact he didn't put his pants on and is pacing only in his long underwear tells me he was jerked into combat mode. One hand holds a rifle and the other rubs through his hair and each crack makes his hands go to his ears. I now see that our fight in 8 may have affected him more than I thought. Or was it when our home was bombed? I feel bad when I think that I am not the only one at war here.

"Gale, hey," I call over to him from my cot. When he doesn't hear me I stand and cautiously step over to him. "It's just me Gale, shhh, it's just me," I announce myself before I reach him. I understand it's too dark at this moment for Gale to see and I can tell he is very much in fight mode.

"Katniss? Oh god, this stuff is crazy huh?" he says as he continues to pace, not looking at me.

"Gale, it's okay. It's only lightning. It's natural. No bombs. We're safe," I try to reassure him.

"Bombs? This would be the perfect time to. . . I should go see Lyme," he sits down and starts to lace his boots. I squat down in front of him and still his hands.

"Gale, it's fine. We're safe," I say again. I can barely make out his features in the dim red glow from his flashlight which is still clipped to his tactical pack on the floor. When the lightning hits again, I finally see the fear in his eyes instead of just feeling it in his shivering wrists.

"Come with me," I unclip his red light from his bag and stand up, pulling on his hands to lead him to the back of the cave where the boxes and crates are stored. One thing I know best is how to find cubby holes to tuck myself into until all of the bad goes away. We pass by a case of ammunition and rifles where I find a couple sets of shooting range earmuffs. I shove a pair onto Gale's head before putting on my own. Instantly the ruckus of confused and sleepy soldiers disappear.

The cacophony continues to follow us and it resonates through our bones, but the further we venture into the cave, the less jarring the shockwaves and flashes are.

We find a spot way in the back, where up and over a few boxes is a gap between some M.R.E.s and wooden crates; their contents only known by those who can translate the random letters hastily spray painted on the side. It's cozy and fits the two of us just fine.

I sit Gale down and allow him to lean back against the sacs of grain and study his face. He looks as if he has calmed down a little since I put the ear protection on him. He taps on my pair and smiles, I guess he means to say 'good idea.' He lets out a big puff of air, but straightens up again at the next blast that rumbles through the cave. I put my hand on his chest and I can feel his heart pounding. His boots rub back and forth on the dusty ground and he tightly closes his eyes.

I lean forward and kiss him, hard. His feet stop moving and his hands stay put at his sides. When I pull away, he doesn't flinch when the next explosion of light finds us in our hiding spot. And before the sound can come crashing in behind its mate, we are already tearing at each other's clothes.

Gale is right, there is something about him when he's hurt or vulnerable that gets me. Maybe it's to make up for all of the wrong that I've done because I'm the reason for all of his pain.

I straddle him in the dim red light, I still feel his heart pounding but it is no longer fearful. Another blast sends vibrations through the rock which, this time, excites every part of me. Gale slips his hands under my long sleeve under shirt and grips me tightly around my ribs as I start to move on top of him. My breathing becomes reminiscent from earlier in the forest, however, it's natural and not as a mimic. Now, I understand. I understand the sensation of being in control of my movements as well as sharing those movements with my partner as well as the same heartbeat.

I lay my left hand on Gale's shoulder, just as it slopes up to his neck. I feel his heat blossoming in this chilly little nook of ours. His pulse drums out a rhythm for me to follow. I allow my right hand to slip between us and I start to touch myself. Another strike cracks outside, yet I doubt it is the reason for the buzzing in my core.

My earmuffs are still tightly clamped over my ears. Even though they mute the outside world, they amplify the tiniest sounds that I so desperately try to keep at bay - however, I don't hear them like I would with my ears, I feel them in my head, much like when I am underwater.

I move faster, and for a moment I think of our first experience, how one sided it was. I wonder if I am being selfish until I see Gale's face - his head back against the bags of grain, his mouth slightly open and his eyes are closed. The way his eyebrows are knitted but turn upward let's me know this time is not as one sided as I thought.

When he bites his lip, and moves his hips upward, changing the angle ever so slightly, I feel something new, I have to stop for a moment. Gale pulls me forward and wraps his arms around me, stilling me while he takes over and lifts his hips, over and over again.

I feel the thunder between us and I sit up again, but this time I lean back, moving my left hand to his right knee to hold myself while my right resumes its position between us. He lets me move at my pace and his hands don't stray when I close my eyes. A moan escapes from my throat and resonates in my head, chambered by the firearm earmuffs and I realize only I can hear it - Gale has on his ear protection and with the storm shrouding us in its song, I allow myself to express, just loud enough, my most intimate sounds.

My mind is blank and my senses are in overdrive; I feel the cool rock under my bare knees, the percussive shockwaves in my core, the humming sweet sounds that swim in my ears, the light I see even with closed eyes, the hardness that presses inside me in just the right way and my very own fingers directing my pleasure.

The combination of these sensations paired with Gale's own displays of ecstasy, drive me over the edge and I imagine that the ground shakes because of me. I freeze in place, but my center continues to flex against Gale. I open my eyes to see him watching me, his mouth open and gasping. Suddenly his eyes scrunch closed and he bites his lip. Calloused hands grip my naked thighs and the hips I continue to straddle flex just as I did a moment ago which I also feel inside.

Breathless, I fall forward onto Gale's chest and let him wrap his arms around me. We lay in the red light for a few moments, until our hearts slow, and our little cubbyhole comes back into focus. He kisses the top of my head and strokes my hair.

I find it interesting that not even eighteen hours later at the train station at the base of the Nut, when a man pulls a gun on me, my pulse never changes. I tell him what Peeta told me, that I am tired of being a piece in their Games. What I meant was I had finally overcome the fear and the control that ground me down into the bloodied earth by the Capitol, by Thread, by Snow himself.

I was tired of killing, of feeling helpless and not in control. To stand up against this man with cold metal pressed against my temple, I am able to look him in the eye without blinking. I am no better than my peers who were called to the arena, nor am I better than those who claw their way out of this burning train tunnel. But I'll be damned if I let another man press me down. And when I see myself get shot on that giant screen, I have never felt more accomplished because I was standing tall.

._-'-_.

I am also tired of ending up in this damned hospital bed.

I'm tired of sleeping. Of staying awake. The wires stuck to my chest and the tape scattered across my arm holding tubes and cords in place. Even more tape is stuck across my belly to conceal the operation that removed my ruptured spleen.

I'm tired of the doctors coming in the moment I finally find a comfortable position to sleep.

I'm tired of the effort it takes just to walk across the cold room to the bathroom. I barely have the energy to roll my eyes as Johanna whistles at me as I walk past her bed in my hospital gown which reveals my backside.

When I hear Johanna whimper and curse at night, I hate myself for having the slightest complaint of my situation. I almost insist she takes my morphling. She's endured so much more than me - to refuse her would be absolutely selfish of me.

I pretend to sleep when Gale comes by to see me. There was something about our last conversation that really upset me. How he easily justified his plans for the bombing of 2. How much his face changed when he spoke of killing all those people. I try to remember how fragile he was in the cave, clutching his ears, cowering at the lighting strikes.

Although, I think that night changed him somehow. The lightning had continued for about an hour after we returned to our cots. Gale had fallen asleep well before I had, his body sprawled across the cot with such comfort and complete disregard for anyone and everything. I must admit, I slept fairly well that night too, but my opinion of trapping people in a crumbling mountain never changed.

When Johanna would harass Gale on his visits, I have to try my best to keep from smiling. How she calls him gorgeous, or pleads for him to take his shirt off. He doesn't stay long when it's just the two of them.

Soon, my electric tethers are removed but the intravenous cannula remains on the back of my hand, leaving me access to my morphling and whatever else they decide I may be in need of. I can walk about the room freely in proper attire which is somewhat like pajamas; they are loose and comfortable.

I manage my first real shower since I arrived back in 13. The sweat and grime that wipes and damp sponges are incapable of removing disappears easily in the hot water. I pat my stomach lightly around the stitches to try and remove any unnecessary scabs and black sticky lines left over from the medical tape. It's not advised to let your wounds get wet, so I awkwardly submerge as much of myself for as long as I can. Finnick showed me a trick to keep the showers from automatically turning off after five minutes. I wait until my fingers are pruned before I begrudgingly turn off the water.

In our hospital room, we are fortunate to have a bathroom with a shower, so we aren't having to gather up all of our belongings and shuffle down a mile long hallway just to pee. When I finally finish, I find Johanna curled up in my bed with my morphling attached to her arm, her head is buried under my pillow.

The next day, Cressida is in our room with Castor and Pollux to film a new propo to commemorate my survival and the Districts' victory in the latest events. Cressida runs her soft fingers across my purple torso, amazed at the sheer size of the bruise. She reminds our viewers that Cinna is still looking out for me and it will take a lot more than a coward with a gun to kill me.

Johanna is courteous enough to stay quiet through the interview, only rolling her eyes once or twice at Cressida's praise of my recovery. I know for a fact that given the opportunity, she would turn down any interviews or propos about her return from the Capitol, however, she sits on her bed bouncing her foot as if she's insulted no one is giving her any attention.

Once the segment is done, Cressida relieves Castor and Pollux from the room and she sits with me for a minute.

"They wanted us to do the propos the day you woke up," she says quietly. "I knew that wouldn't be right. You weren't ready for that. Coin wasn't too pleased, but I think you look a lot better now than you did with all those wires and stuff."

"Thank you. I feel better, but until I can sneeze without crying, Coin will have to wait for her Mockingjay."

"You're doing really great. You scared us there for a minute. I'm glad you pulled through," she says and Johanna loudly sighs and pulls her curtain closed around her bed.

Cressida and I look at each other as if one of us has kicked a puppy. I start to make an excuse for her, but I only manage a sigh of my own. Cressida puts her hands up and shakes her head, remaining silent. She gets up and goes to Johanna's side of the room and slowly peeks her head around the curtain. Keeping her voice low, I can only make out the gist of what she is saying, things like how Johanna had inspired her to join the rebellion.

"I don't know if you remember me, but I, well, we worked together once. I photographed you," Cressida finally confesses. "I felt so bad about how they were treating you-"

"I don't remember you. Photographed me for what?" Johanna asks sternly.

I can hear Cressida struggling to find the right words, "It was a, uhm, a special kind of publication, I guess you can say. I didn't like doing it. Like I said, you inspired me to make a difference, to seek out the rebellion."

"I didn't notice a difference. What did you do to help me?"

"Well, I-" Cressida clears her throat, "It took a long time before I met Plutarch and was finally put in a strategic position within the rebellion. I'm so sorry for what happened to you."

"This photoshoot. You get paid for it?"

"Of course, but-"

I hear a loud slap from behind the curtain.

"How fucking dare you come in here and say you wanted to help me when you were making money off of me! You Capitol piece of shit. How much did you make off those photos? How much money did my cunt put in your pocket?"

I feel the room turn to ice and Cressida flings open the curtain and hurries out the door with her hand to her cheek.

It isn't long before Johanna pulls the curtain back and stomps to my bed, wordlessly sitting down next to me and popping the morphling drip onto her own cannula. Her lips are pursed and her nostrils are flared as she breathes heavily. After a minute, she closes her eyes and allows herself to relax under the spell of the morphling.

"Cressida really has been making a difference," I break the silence.

"Just because your girlfriend has been all sweety pie to you, doesn't mean she's still not one of them."

"She told me she had no choice, they threatened her if she didn't do the shoot," I say, desperately trying to explain the other side of the story.

"Oh, you two sharing secrets now, huh? What else did she say about me?" Johanna purses her lips again, but her eyes are barely open now. "She tell you what happened when I finally said no? When I wanted to make a difference?" Her chin quivers and she slumps over onto my pillow. Although she closes her eyes, a few tears manage to escape from between her heavy lids. She lets out a ragged sigh, and falls asleep.

The events during the following days keep my mind off of my throbbing ribs. All of my morphling goes to Johanna now, even after Annie and Finnick's wedding night. The dancing and festivities left me in so much pain that night, however, my midnight meeting with Peeta kept me sober. He reminded me that I still have real enemies.

Real enemies in the Capitol. The place where I am not allowed to go. Coin must have heard about mine and Johanna's frustrations about our being held captive in 13, itching to get out and truly make a difference. We are summoned again to the Command Center after dinner, and this time, Gale and Finnick join us.

I gladly take a seat at the large table. It's a long journey to Command, and twice in one day has my ribs burning. Johanna decides to find a seat on a short cabinet to the back of the room, whereas Gale and FInnick remain standing.

Coin stands before us, with two guards standing at attention at her side. I figure it to be more theatrics on her part, but soon she informs us that she has an incentive for us. A gift really.

"I have given you three weeks to train for the opportunity to be deployed on a special ops mission into the Capitol. Some are more prepared than others," she says, looking at Gale. "I want to make sure your heads remain in the game. Come with me." Her guards stay with her, one in front and one behind, as she guides our small group through little dark hallways. I bring up the rear, shuffling along at a decent pace, but not fast enough to overdo it. Eventually, I fall far enough behind to where Gale has to come back and find me since they made two turns ahead of me. I can only imagine how disappointed Coin is in my failure to even walk.

Soon we come to a familiar compartment, number 3908, the holding cell for Venia, Flavius and Octavia, my prep team. My stomach turns at the thought of seeing more of my friends or allies behind this door. Gale notices it too and speaks for me, "What could you possibly have for us in there?"

Coin clears her throat and motions to the guards. One steps forward and inserts a large key into the lock. The other tightens his grip on his weapon. Whatever it is, they don't want it getting out, yet how they are looking at me, they don't want me going in.

When the door opens, we peer inside to the dark room. A figure sits on the floor, shackled to the far wall.

Coin clears her throat and says, "What is in this room? Your incentive to successfully complete your training." She nods again to the guard and the light is switched on.

A small emaciated man with white hair and a scruffy white beard is huddled against the wall, wearing nothing but sweatpants. I don't recognize him.

"That son of a bitch," Gale says. And then it hits me.

It's Thread.


	15. Imposter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thread's presence in 13 won't be the last shocking revelation for Katniss.

My vision blurs as pain washes over me. I don't know if I want to scream, lunge in attack or run away. Instead, my lungs freeze and my feet remain planted. In doing so, every muscle in my torso locks in place, creating a massive pressure against my ribs which ignites a swell of fire that rises to my face. It's Gale who reaches for my hand first. He still doesn't know what Thread did to me, so he must be reaching to me for his own support. His other hand is clenched in a fist tighter than my insides.

Somehow, in my utter shock, I must appear stoic as Coin locks her eyes on me, almost studying my reaction - keeping mental notes for later no doubt. Coin doesn't even glance at Johanna who is grappling with the guards that block the doorway to Thread's prison cell. Johanna swears and screams and her curses echo down the long dark hallways paired with sounds of her pounding on the guards' armored chests. After a few moments, Finnick takes her in his arms and slowly walks her away from view of our abuser.

I force myself to look at him, at Thread, the small ragged man shackled to the cold tile floor next to the drainage grate. He has been rendered unconscious for our meeting today and his head is propped against the wall. The restraints have painted his wrists and ankles red.

"An incentive to follow your schedules, follow orders and get back into fighting shape. In three weeks time you will be sent to the Capitol, but not before we publicly execute our Commander Romulus Thread here, in two weeks time," Coin says, keeping her hands behind her back. "Think of it as a dress rehearsal for President Snow."

Execution. Thread is going to die in two weeks, and we are going to kill him.

I slowly release the air from my lungs and try not to grimace as I relax my ribs. Coin doesn't break her gaze as she waits for her Mockingjay to respond. Fear, mixed with pain and nausea swirls in my stomach. Seeing Thread again made that night on the dusty kitchen floor come rushing back in my mind and senses.

I rub my nose and clear my throat, "How was he captured?" I ask.

Coin runs her tongue slowly across her lip, relishing the words she is about to say, almost eager to see my reaction when she reveals their method.

"He hid himself among the District 12 refugees after the bombing."

My mouth turns sour as Gale's hand tightens around mine. The corset of pain wraps around me again, crushing my ribs.

"He's been here the entire time?" Gale asks through gritted teeth, giving me a moment to find my breath again. "Not a single person recognized him? He's the most hated man in our District!"

"Yes, the entire time. He remained mostly hidden though, like a rat in our vents and sewers. I doubt anyone even saw him. Because of his reclusive behavior, we don't believe he has been able to make any outside communications, so our exact location is still safe."

I see Finnick holding Johanna up, her knees must have buckled with Coin's announcement. He holds one hand to her cheek and whispers something to her.

"There were four other Peacekeepers though," Coin continues, her hands now clasped in front of her. "The first one was found in a restricted area, crawling around air vents and shafts. We had him in holding for a few days until we learned about the Capitol's very own interrogation methods," Coin says with a mischievous smile. "I must say, Johanna, you did well. He couldn't make it past two hours of your treatment; gave everyone up, just like that." Johanna scowls at Coin's remarks. I figured Johanna to be the vengeful type, her reaction to Coin's comments tells me that she may not be so eye-for-an-eye after all.

"Why are you just now telling us this? He looks like he's been in there for months," Finnick asks, keeping his arms around Johanna. I imagine everyone's minds are breaking at the thought of this monster hiding among us.

"Our initial discovery of the imposters was during the Rescue Mission. They must have assumed with our attention drawn elsewhere, we wouldn't notice their attempts at hacking the main line, piggy-backing off of Beetee's work."

I remember prisoners being transported through the hallways shortly after my recovery from Peeta's attack. To think I was that close to him then without knowing. To think, even before, I could have passed him in these hallways when I was aimlessly wandering around alone.

Coin continues with a smug and proud look, "because we are so strict with how our food is handled and rationed among our citizens, our stowaways found it very difficult to obtain any food for themselves. We figure they had to find what was left in the pig slop and compost piles."

These methods weren't beyond Gale and myself, so we did not react to their ways of foraging. Finnick, however, made a very audible retch at the thought.

"Each one of you has some very personal ties to our prisoner," Coin motions to one of the guards to close the door, bringing our attention back to her. "Therefore, I want to be the one to be able to extend the greatest gift to you all; revenge."

I needed time to process. I needed time to breathe. I couldn't hold this in for much longer otherwise Gale would be holding me up too. Even though I didn't give anything away, Coin lets on like she may know there is more between Thread and I besides that right hook he gave me during Gale's whipping.

"Two weeks," I manage to say and after giving Gale's hand a squeeze, I let go and walk back down the hallway. I don't hear footsteps follow me, however, I hear the group interrogate Coin further on the specifics of the matter. I painfully quicken my pace once I round the first corner. Two more corners and I make my way through a service gate to an old favorite and most secure cubbyhole.

Here, behind a control panel, I can finally wrap my arms around my throbbing ribs as I cry. I feel like I am on the train again leaving District 12 for my sophomore visit to the arena; pretending all day that everything was fine, even though my entire body ached, inside and out. I remember how close Effie was when Thread flexed his authority on me before I boarded. The effort not to cry out, not to fight back, not to show any weakness or beg for any help, tore at my heart. When I had to walk past Effie in the main train car to my compartment, it felt like miles. Once inside, I was truly alone to collapse and purge any and all feelings of the last day.

My mind splits into pieces - It sickens me to think he had been here the whole time. It sickens me to be reminded of his crimes. Yet, the elation I feel to have justice at my fingertips in a matter of weeks leaves me utterly overwhelmed.

I try to slow my breathing and stop my racking sobs from grinding at my ribs. "My name is Katniss Everdeen. I'm seventeen years old. My home was District 12. I was raped," I paused to clear my throat, still not used to the taste of the word, "I was raped by Commander Thread, the same person who hurt Gale. I was in the Hunger Games. Twice. I escaped and I am now in District 13. I will kill my oppressor. I will kill my rapist."

This enemy, this man, who was huge enough to crush our District in his gloved fist, is rotting on a piss soaked floor.

I feel like the walls of the arena are crashing down again.

._-'-_.

The guard who had found me left my arm throbbing by the time he dropped me at my compartment door in the hospital wing. It was well past curfew when I emerged from my hiding spot and well past the guards patience; this had been the third time he found me wandering about the halls since my arrival. I rub my arm and give a rude gesture as he walks away to return to his patrol.

I know I wasn't off to a great start at Coin's command of following orders, however, I figured that wouldn't start officially until tomorrow. I was still digesting the situation on my own. I wasn't ready to talk to Gale. I wasn't willing to divulge the fact that he has shared me with a mutual enemy. Even though Cressida had been my confidant once before, I feel that another dose of my shame would be too much.

Back in the Training Center, when Finnick and I were trading bullseyes for secrets, I had only revealed that I was familiar with Thread's form of punishment. Finnick, being clever enough, didn't need clarification on the matter. It wasn't until my visit after Annie's return that he finally fully confessed the details of his session with the tyrant. I know that Johanna was well acquainted with Thread, but did she know about me?

I stand at my door, staring at the handle. Is this the time to strengthen my alliance with my fellow tribute?

Once inside the dimly lit room, I find Johanna's frail body curled up on my bed, tethered by the thin tube that delivers a painless twilight.

"Johanna, are you awake?" I inquire while simultaneously announcing myself. She stirs at the sound of my voice so I approach the bedside. Her eyes are puffy and pink and her gaze hazy, but she's conscious enough to recognise me as I crawl onto the bed beside her.

"You okay?" I ask, lightly rubbing my hand over her shoulder.

"I still hear them, you know," she murmurs. Her hands are clasped weakly by her mouth, conveniently close to wipe her running nose when she sniffles. I run my hand over her short hair which is almost long enough to comb between my fingers. She's warm, but not feverish, even still, I reach down and pull the bundled blanket up over her feet and bare legs.

"The mockingjays?" I'm confused, in the arena, she said there was no one left they could use against her. My hand resumes its duty of stroking her hair, administering what little comfort I had to offer in partnership to the morphling. Johanna lightly shakes her head allowing a fresh tear to fall. She closes her eyes and she whispers something I can't make out, but by the way her lips moved, I believe she said, "I'm sorry."

"Hey, Johanna," I shake her shoulder lightly, just enough to get her eyes to focus on me again. "We're gonna kill that bastard."

When she closes her eyes again, she smiles.

The next day after training and a lovely administration of a cocktail of District 13's wonder drug to speed up my healing process, I am back in my bed digging my heels into the mattress and chewing on a rubber hose tourniquet. This method of rehabilitation has to be done sober because any pain remedies or morphling can interfere and render the concoction useless. This means my morphling drip had been removed from my room completely. My appetite is non-existent so I remain in my room during dinner.

When Johanna finally returns, she is accompanied by Gale, who keeps his eyes to the ceiling and remains a safe distance from Johanna's flirtatious pinching fingers. I notice her disappointment when she discovers the I.V. unit is missing. She knows to keep that conversation for later and she curls up on her bed with a newly acquired training manual from this morning.

Gale has something in his hand which is loosely wrapped in a handkerchief. I attempt to sit up, but just lifting my head acts as bellows on the already inflamed flesh around my ribs. I wince hard and let my head fall back onto the pillow. Immediately, Gale is at my side and fussing over me. I wave him away with my fingertips and assure him I'll be fine.

"I've heard about that stuff, your treatment, I mean," Gale says, pulling a chair close to my bed. "There were some workers who got stuck in a cave-in when we were bombed. Coin doesn't like having people out of commission for too long, especially when there is work to be done. Don't worry, you'll feel a lot better in a day or two," Gale says, taking one of my hands. We hadn't seen each other since our stowaway was revealed, his hands hold mine much softer this time.

"I couldn't find you last night. Are you alright?" Gale asks after a moment.

I think of Johanna and her reaction to Thread's sudden appearance and I'd rather we not discuss him while she is in the room. So I simply nod, and glance over to Johanna's direction and give a tiny shake of my head. Gale catches on immediately and clears his throat.

"Ah, well. Uhm, oh! I brought you these," he exclaims and presents the balled up handkerchief. I look at it quizzically and wait for him to explain. Gale smiles mischievously and plucks the edges of the cloth away to uncover a small bundle of green grapes. My eyes go wide and I gasp at the prize. Gale stifles a laugh and puts a finger to his lips.

"You missed dinner, and I figured these would be something easy to nibble on. I remember all I could eat was snow after my whipping. No ice here, so these are the closest things I could find," he says softly and plucks a single grape from its vine. He admires it and then looks back to me, "May I?"

How could I resist? I smile and open my mouth to accept his offering, this way I can avoid moving any muscle that would be angry with me. My teeth gently settle on the firm skin of the fruit and I anticipate the burst of flavor, my mouth already watering. Gale eagerly watches me, waiting for the exact moment the juice hits my tongue.

Instantly, a relief washes over me in a wave of sweet nectar. I chew slowly, keeping the flesh in my mouth as long as I can, tasting every drop before it disappears. The last time I had something this sweet was the orange back in 2, and I had devoured it in a frenzy. I don't want to make that same mistake. Gale offers me another and I shake my head. I'll save the rest for later to break up the monotony of the dull taste of the rubber tourniquet.

Just then, Gale's communicuff begins to blink and buzz. I've learned to stop asking where he's mysteriously being beckoned to. This was the first time in a long time that we had a nice, simple moment that didn't mean anything, and I was just starting to enjoy it. He stands and leans over me, "Heal up quick, yeah? The turkeys are starting to forget about you," he says with a wink and kisses me before he is pulled away by another session of buzzing and beeping.

"Ooooo, a little family affair we got goin' on," Johanna chortles when Gale leaves the room. I roll my eyes, completely forgetting about his assumed identity as my cousin.

"You know he's not my cousin, right? That was supposed to protect him back home," I say, turning my head in her direction. She is sitting up in her bed cross legged, her training manual on her lap.

"No shit, brainless. Otherwise it would be incredibly creepy weird to have your cousin sneaking in here in the middle of the night to make sure you're still breathing."

I think back to how I wouldn't leave his side after Thread whipped him for poaching. How could I blame him for checking in on me during my convalescence. This was becoming a regular meeting place for us it seemed; my recovery after the escape from the arena, shrapnel in my leg from 8, Peeta's reunion and now my prize for toppling District 2.

I remember when I stole a kiss when Gale was most vulnerable. How many kisses had Johanna seen Gale steal?

"It would take the orderly changing my sheets to figure out if I weren't breathing," Johanna continues and throws her book across the room; it slaps the tile and slides with a hiss for several feet before hitting the wall. "Even then, they would probably just fluff me up like they do the pillows and prop me back up until the next laundry day."

"Oh, c'mon. Don't be so pitiful."

"Truly, how many visitors do I get in here that aren't wearing a lab coat?"

She was right. The only thing anyone was interested in when they came to see her was her temperature and bowel movements.

"Cressida is really nice. I'd wish you would give her another chance. She could help you talk things out."

"Fuck her. I've already got a therapist."

"She just wants to help," I say, pushing myself up onto the pillow a few inches.

"The same way she helped by telling me everything was going to be okay right before I strapped down in bondage? The same way she told me the axe handle was just a prop?"

I imagine Johanna's scene in my mind and picture Cressida speaking low and sweetly; her charm that convinces anyone they could do anything. I see Cressida talking to me the same way. I shake my head when I wonder what kind of themes Peeta and I would have endured. Cressida told me the shoot was rough, but not like that. I doubt either of us want to dwell on the particular details so I move on.

"She was forced to do it. Cressida said they had guns and there was no way out of it."

"That excuse gets thrown around a lot. We all have been forced to do things," Johanna says as she circles her finger in the air. "The only difference is, she benefited off of it - she got a paycheck. Her family wasn't threatened, her body wasn't scarred. She never had to deal with the constant looming doom. She was rewarded and that's why anyone Capitol can kiss my ass."

Johanna rubs her thumb on the back of her other hand, trying to scrub away the little black lines left behind from medical tape. She too has been cleared from any intravenous supplements now that we have graduated to combat training.

"Will you be okay?" I ask, imagining the throbbing pain of my burning flesh in the place of her mind - begging to be extinguished by morphling. However, she doesn't get my meaning and rolls her eyes with a huff.

"Are we ever going to be okay? Even if I can take a shit on Snow's skull, I doubt I will ever be okay."

"The morphling I mean. Will you be okay without it?" I had grown to appreciate its capabilities and I too have been on the verge of overuse. I understand the dependency for a fractured bone, but not a fractured psyche.

Johanna waves her hand, "It had to happen anyway. I kind of miss my little arena demons peeling the flesh off my face in my nightmares."

Our compartment is deathly quiet; no machines or beeping computers, just our huffs and groans as we lay in our beds waiting for sleep. Johanna had taken to pacing, but grew bored with that quite quickly. My tourniquet hose was now in two pieces and I only had three grapes left. My training manual lies next to Johanna's on the floor - I had read cover to cover twice and gave up on it as my only source of entertainment.

"What did you do for fun back home?" I ask, now curled up on my side. It is past lights out, however, we are allowed a dim light to remain on. I'm not sure if it's for patients to be able to traverse the room without tripping over their wires or gowns in the middle of the night, or if it's meant for those of us with nightmares. Either way, I appreciate its presence.

Johanna's foot had been bouncing for the last hour. She lies on top of her blankets, because getting under them meant untangling herself from the sheets when she wanted to pop up again to pace the room.

"Fun?" she laughs, "god, what's that? Oh, I guess I remember a time when climbing trees was fun. Before it was a full time job, or a way to hide from someone. We would race to the top or jump from one tree to another." Johanna's gaze ventures to the ceiling during her reverie. She pauses for a moment and turns back to me, "For being a coal miner's daughter, I was pretty surprised to see how well you can climb." Johanna sits up now with the soles of her feet pressed against each other, letting her knees bounce.

"I used to hunt in the forest, just outside the border fences," I confess. "I'd be up there for hours waiting for deer or turkeys. There was a lake way out there too, so some days when it was too hot for even for the squirrels, we'd jump from the branches into the water," I say, feeling the corners of my mouth turn upwards. "My dad taught me. Not only how to hunt but how to swim and climb."

Johanna's knees stop bouncing and she looks down, chewing on her lip. "I didn't like going out to the woods with my dad much. He taught me a few things too," she clears her throat.

"Oh?" What lessons could be so troubling for a young girl in the woods? I remember how gross it was to skin my first squirrel by myself.

"Let's see, how not to gag for one. Uhm, how not to use your teeth, and if you didn't want to get smacked upside the head, how to swallow," Johanna says, the muscles in her jaw flex as she grits her teeth.

I look at her for a moment and shake my head, "I don't…"

"I was his favorite little girl, you know. I was the Peacekeepers' too, apparently. He made some pretty good money off of those photos," she says as she absent mindedly scrapes the dirt from her fingernails using a thumbnail. "Didn't matter if it was a million dollars, he'd just use that to drink even more. Never used any of it for our family. I still took tesserae."

Everything clicks in my head so hard, I can actually hear it. My mouth turns sour.

"Soon, the photos weren't enough," Johanna continues, no longer talking directly to me, but reciting her story like it was the hundredth time. "That's how I learned to be quiet and pathetic, they weren't interested for long if I did that. Thread though, was the opposite. If I was quiet, it would last way longer - kind of a cat and mouse game."

"That's horrible," I say, choking on my words. On top of everything else she's told me, not only did she have to survive her own father, but Thread was among the ranks as well. "I'm so sorry," I add.

She looks up as if she just snapped out of a dream, "Sorry? God, you sound just like everybody else." Just then, she hops off of her bed and makes for the door. "Like you know anything. You're no better than they are and you sure as shit aren't better than me," she says and takes hold of the door handle. "Fuck!" Johanna shouts, and then jiggles and pulls the door handle frantically. "It's like we're back in that fucking training center again," she huffs in defeat and turns to put her back to the door.

I'm surprised at her sudden change in mood, how she suddenly turned on me when I expressed my sympathies.

"I'm not like them," I retort, sitting up completely in bed quite offended. The pain is still there, but it seems to have ebbed for the time being. "I know plenty, and if you don't want my support, fine. You don't have to be a bitch about everything to everyone. There are people here trying to help you, you know?"

"Oh, yes you are like them. Fucking costumes and fanfare. You can't get anymore Capitol than that," Johanna says as she slides down and sits on the floor.

"This costume has moved us forward. This costume has made a difference - Unlike your sulking pity party. You're just like you were in your games. Pathetic." Being stuck in this room with a mopey Johanna has put me on my last nerves. She used to be so sure and so cocky which I realize I kind of admired. I feel the same annoyance as I did with Peeta - they were tortured and all I can do is be snippy with them. It didn't matter, my words were out and I said them and I kind of meant them.

"What have you done in the last five years to make all this shit stop?" I continue, raising my voice a little, but I don't care anymore, "I'm at least trying my best with what they keep throwing at me. I want this to be over and the only way to do that is get up and fight." Johanna has her knees up to her chin, her leg bouncing again. Even from across the dim room, I can tell her eyes are starting to water.

"Fuck you. Save that speech for another one of your stupid propos," she wipes her eyes with the back of her hand and goes into the bathroom, slamming the door behind her.

This is going to be a long night, I think. I wasn't about to have a pissing contest with someone who has just been tortured for several weeks. So I lay back and shove the tourniquet back in my mouth,

After about twenty minutes, I can hear Johanna start to scream in the bathroom. Things are being tossed along with obscenities. Then, she throws the door open and runs to our compartment door. "I can't be in here anymore! I can't have any locked doors! Someone let me out! Please!" she screams and tears at the door handle. "Someone let me the fuck out of here!"

Pain be damned, I hop out of my bed and run to Johanna. I remember how Finnick took her in his arms, how just the simple task of touching seemed to calm her. I grab her from behind and turn her around to face me, and pull her into a tight embrace. She struggles at first, unsure of the meaning behind my actions.

"Hey, hey. Come on now, shhh," I say, bringing her head to my chest, "You're not alone. That's what I have been wanting to tell you - you are not alone. I'm here and I understand," I say quietly, stroking a hand over her short greasy hair. Sobs shake her body against mine as she leans her weight against me. I think of Prim when one of her many strays she had rescued had died and I was the only one to console her in our mother's absence. Johanna is so small and fragile, not much bigger than my sister, especially now that we are seated on the floor.

I break our embrace and hold her face in my hands, "Johanna, we're allies remember? You're not the only one fighting here."

"I'm just so tired," she sighs and wipes her puffy brown eyes, "you think I've been hiding and cowering for the last five years? You're wrong. I've had to survive every hour of every day. I thought it would all go away after my games, that's what they promised me. That's what they said the deal was, when I. . ." she stops suddenly and looks me straight in the eye. I nod for her to go on.

". . .I killed my father."

I sit back on my knees and tightly take her hands in mine.

"Right there in the wood shed," she says shakily. "I waited for him, like I had many times before. That last time, I swung my axe right up under his ribs as hard as I could and I ran off leaving him there face down on the ground. When they found him two days later, they figured he'd been so drunk he fell on his axe by accident. Thread knew differently. I guess he saw I had some fight in me and wasn't going to be so easy anymore. I had two choices, have my name put on top of the Reaping Bowl or be hanged for my father's murder."

That's what Finnick meant by Johanna's Reaping being rigged. Her odds have always been against her. I pull her to me and wrap my arms around her again. "I really, truly am sorry. I mean it," I say and kiss her forehead. "And if you don't want to accept that, you can fuck right off."


End file.
